


Holiest

by pilotisms



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Diplomacy, F/M, Hux Hates him, Pre-Canon, Royalty, Slow Burn, especially pretty queens who are smart and quick and wonderful, hux is also bad with women, kylo is so snarky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: “And who’s this?”Hux winces.“Sirs,” your father ducks into a bow. You raise your chin, eyes like knives darting between the men. You will not bow. Not to them. You are a Queen —  in spirit and in title and they don’t challenge it. “I present my daughter, her Highness of Hosnian, Senator to the New Republic.”There’s a pause, your father’s eyes meet the floor.“Commander Hux, your betrothed.”





	1. Betrothed.

**Author's Note:**

> Here goes nothing! 
> 
> I hope you guys like this idea - I wanted to explore Hux's character as well as the dynamics of politics/royalty in the new series' world! 
> 
> This first chapter is a bit darker than my normal style, but don't worry, things will lighten up.
> 
> If you want to read more of my Star Wars shiz, check my blog out at whirlybirbs.tumblr.com!

Your feet hit the glossy deck of the _Supremacy_ with hesitation, dress train kissing the pristine floor as your eyes meet the inky surroundings. Your handmaidens, young and shy, sweep the material into their hands as you step forward. The reception is…

Orderly.

Lines of stormtroopers crowd the hangar -- First Order officers’ steal their glances, hands clasped behind their backs as you trudge forward. _Chin up, eyes cold_. Against the monochrome backdrop, you’re an ethereal picture of royalty. The pinks and blues of your chiffon dress have no place here. You swear you can feel the flowers in your hair wilt.

Behind you, the Hosnian royal class freighter’s engines cut. Silence swallows the entire hangar whole and you _wince --_ your growing discomfort climaxes as your father’s booming voice occupies a new space in it all. Anger bubbles in your lungs. You fight the urge to scream, to tear him down where he stands.

“My _beautiful daughter!”_

He’s surrounded by commanding officers, each terrifying in their own respects. You try desperately to hide your disgust -- for this place, for these people, for your _father_ \-- for any slip of the face may give away where your real alliances lay. The First Order has no place in this universe -- no militarist dictatorship does. The New Republic senator in you blanches at the ease with which the stormtroopers salute your father.

A _traitor_.

He connects with you halfway across the hangar, fingers meeting your own. The leather of his gloves is cold against your bare knuckles. His eyes are almost apologetic -- but you’re quick to shove your growing anger aside. Your face is cold.

“Father.”

“I… I’m glad you made the trip safely, my dear.”

“First Order TIE fighters _escorted_ me here,” you sneer, “It was _insulting_. The Hosnian Royal Guard can handle themselves, lest you forget --”

Your voice hikes, anger sharpening your words. You’re quick to let it die in your throat. Your father’s eyes are emptier now. Not warm, not jovial. No longer belonging to the man who raised you. They were the eyes of a First Order sympathizer trying to gain a leg up in the changing times. Had you been more cunning, _darker_ in all respects, then maybe you could have admired it.

But, you had too much of your mother in you.

“Come with me,” your father breathes, eyes a bit sad. His gaze falls on one of your handmaidens, Seeva, and he speaks quickly. “Have the guards bring her luggage out. They’ll be seen to her personal quarters.”

“Sir, if I may,” the voice is mechanical -- _new,_ “There will be no need for that.”

She’s towering and metallic, a picturesque example of a soldier -- you assume she must be _Phasma_ . You’d read about her in the Resistance battle logs. She is _dangerous_. Your face floods with a false sense of appreciation.

“Thank you,” your head ducks, a small bow.

The Captain of the First Order is silent. Her chromium armor betrays any sense of emotion. You don’t mind. You weren’t interested in making friends. Not here. She lifts her hand, small and commanding still, and two stormtroopers move aboard the ship to escort your belongings off the freighter.

Urging you forward, your father takes your hand -- a gentle reminder of your regal background. Here he is, to deliver you to your means and your end.

Your legs want to refuse, to give out and cement you to the floor. And still, you trudge on, eyes trained cooly the duo heading the hangar: Commander Hux, surrounded by officers and soldiers, and Kylo Ren, masked and looming. The saber on his belt glints in the harsh lighting. You wince.

You know who they are. _Everyone_ does.

The New Republic’s fear -- two _young men_. Children playing Empire.

The Force is their weapon, Snoke their handler. The falsities of an ancient religion mask their power, it betrays their true abilities. The Senate sees them as nothing. Not a threat. But, you _know_ the force, you know the power it holds.

And still, Armitage Hux isn’t a religious man.

No, he cements himself in science and numbers and logic as any good commander should. He doesn’t waste his time on his knees praying to some higher being, wishing for luck and aching for blessings.

But, when you step off that ship -- he wavers. He thinks perhaps maybe he could worship you. You’re beautiful and delicate and poised. The lace of your gown screams of a femininity lost aboard this _cold_ ship and Armitage thinks _for a moment_ that he could pray, get on his knees and fall victim to all of your blessings.

The Commander stiffens, jaw clenched as you approach. Your father’s grip is that of a man willing to trade his life for safety -- Hux has seen it before. In times like these, everyone is trying to preserve their worth. _You_ happened to be part of a deal, one that would secure safety for the future of Hosnian and hopefully Hosnian Prime. Though, Hux was _sure_ you were simply another diplomatic pawn in the eyes of Snoke.

Kylo sees his mother in you and it startles something in him -- wariness, maybe. For a moment, he worries for the sake of his contemporary. Only for a moment, though, as the Knight of Ren speaks harshly.

“And who’s _this_?”

Hux winces.

“Sirs,” your father ducks into a bow. You raise your chin, eyes like knives darting between the men. You will not bow. Not to them. You are _a Queen_ \-- in spirit and in title and _they_ don’t challenge it. “I present my daughter, her Highness of Hosnian, Senator to the New Republic.”

There’s a pause, your father’s eyes meet the floor.

“Commander Hux, your _betrothed_.”


	2. Trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hux is a nervous man full of panic and doesn't know how to his emotions about girls.  
> (Also, Hux is a COMMANDER in this fic, currently. He hasn't been promoted to General yet.)
> 
> Kylo is an ass.
> 
> I love Mitaka and how he's terrified everything.
> 
> Anyways! Let me know what you think!

Hux lays his lips on your knuckles and that’s it.

No fireworks, no sparks. No rosey blush. Not from you, at least.

His eyes are cold, like ice, and you can’t help but notice how they soften when they land on you. Perhaps he feels _pity_ . In reality, it’s nervousness that blinds him — suddenly feeling an overwhelming need to _puke_ , the Commander stiffens. He will _not_ vomit on your dress. You were, after all, to be his wife. First impressions matter. Clearing his throat, Hux stands to his full height before speaking.

“A _pleasure_ , your highness.”

You blanch, words flat. “ _Charmed._ ”

Kylo nearly _laughs,_ especially as Hux struggles to recover. His tongue trips over itself as he orders Phasma to show you to your room.

“Wonderfully done,” Ren chides when you’re finally out of earshot, “Surely she’ll be wrapped around your twiddling thumbs in no time.”

“Shut _up_ , Ren.”

You’re carted off to your own quarters and told to prepare for dinner — a welcoming reception for you. A cocktail affair. Annoyance rolls off you in waves as Phasma escorts you, your handmaidens and your luggage to the sweeping grand suite in the east wing of the _Supremacy_ you’d be calling your own.

Upon entering, you realize it’s a luxurious room; large and… _black_ . The far window spans the length of the room, displaying the never-ending inky ocean of space. The drone of the engines are quieter in here, and had the room not been so cold in appearance _perhaps_ you’d like it. The king-sized bed is regal looking; ornate and imposing. The attached bathroom is large, sporting a bathtub and an elegant vanity.

It’s lonelier than your quarters in the palace on Hosnian. You had trinkets there, little mementos of adventures, and posters and art and flowers and a _balcony_ but… your room aboard the _Supremacy_ is bare.

Your handmaidens have the same reaction as you: _mild disgust._

They’re quick to begin to unpack your belongings.

You’ve started to snoop — to poke your nose into the closet and into the bathroom and check for trackers or recorders — when you hear a knock at the door. Moving, you wave off your handmaidens and sigh. The girls were on edge. Rightfully so.

The door slides open quickly with an angry hiss and reveals a young girl — mousy and wide eyed — with a large box in her arms. She seems startled at _your_ appearance at the door and quickly ducks into a bow, words faltering and stammering.

“Your highness! I apologize for the interruption.”

You can’t help the tilt of your lips. “It’s alright… _uh…_ Lieutenant?”

The bars on her collar are different. She blinks, eyes flying to her own collar and back to your face. “Oh! Uh, Junior Lieutenant, your highness. Lusica Stynnix, your highness.”

“Ah, my apologies. Junior Lieutenant Stynnix, the interruption is no problem,” you offer, annoyance clipping your voice. You swallow, straightening your shoulders, “How can I help you?”

“A gift from Commander Hux, your highness. I was told to deliver it.”

“A _gift_ ,” you reiterate, a bit of amusement in your voice, “He’s too kind.”

The box is heavy, and from the lettering scrawled across the box you’re made aware it’s a dress; an expensive dress from a designer on Coruscant. You’re a bit impressed. Clearly the First Order was paying him well.

“Simply trying to earn your favor, I think, your highness.”

“Trying. He’s _trying_ ,” you mumble, offering Stynnix a small smile, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“ _Junior_ Lieutenant.”

“Right. _Junior_ Lieutenant.”

* * *

“He doesn’t seem so horrible, your highness,” it’s Seeva, voice quiet as her fingers work themselves into your hair. The braids are high swept, crowning your head in a Hosnian fashion. Small buds, white and delicate, are threaded into the thick knots as you watch Seeva in the mirror, “He’s handsome at least.”

She’s been by your side for the longest -- the others are crowded along your bed, waiting patiently to dress you in the long black gown that had arrived at your door an hour or so ago.

“Handsome or not,” you heave a sigh, “He’s a First Order commandant.”

“— The dress is nice.”

“ _Expensive_ ,” chimes Mela, “Don’t forget expensive.”

“Who _cares_ how expensive it was,” Seeva bites, “It’s the gesture. He’s  _trying_ to earn your favor.”

Pelari speaks next, the quietest of the bunch. “He has been nothing but kind. These quarters…”

“They are nice.”

“Quite nice.”

You’re silent, eyes glued to the woman in the mirror. You look like a shadow of yourself — these last few days have been nothing but… _horror_. You inhale and exhale and repeat, all before Seeva’s warm fingers grace the bare expanse of your shoulder.

“Enough of the chatter. Come along, your highness. Let us dress you.”

* * *

He falls through the stall, slamming the metal door shut.

Armitage’s head is in the toilet, stomach lurching violently.

Starched knees hit the tiled floor as pristine dress shoes scuff in a mild scramble.

He should have had another drink. Something. _Anything_ . He hasn’t been this nervous since… well, he can’t quite remember. Certainly never in his life over a _girl_.

Armitage groans as the doors to the bathroom swing open and this time the timid voice of Lieutenant Dopheld Mitaka meets Hux’s ears. There’s a second set of boots against the tile -- peering under the stall door, Hux recognizes them as Kylo’s and his stomach lurches again.

“Sir?”

“What is _it_ , Mitaka?”

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Yes, I’m —” Armitage dry heaves, groaning loudly, “I am _fine_ , Mitaka.”

“You don’t sound fine, sir,” Mitaka fusses with his cap, wringing it between gloved hands and sparing a look towards Kylo Ren who is leaned against a stall door, “The Queen is looking for you —”

“Oh, _god_.”

Another bought of nerves. Another wave of nausea.

In all fairness, he hadn’t been this nervous before he knew what she was looked like — he’d seen a holo-projection here and there, but that was _nothing_ compared to the real, living, breathing Queen that stepped off that freighter. Hux felt like an idiot. Here, on this bathroom floor, the daunting task of _dancing_ with you was enough to send him into another spiral of panic. And dinner hadn’t even _started._

“Pull yourself together, Hux,” it’s Kylo this time, mask graveling his voice, “If you don’t _like_ her, then I’m sure the Supreme Leader would —”

“I like her very _much_ , and I think that’s the problem, _Ren._ ”

The door to the bathroom swings open _again_ , just as Hux begins to dry heave loudly.

“What the _hell_ is going on in here?”

It’s Lank Paze this time. Hux recognizes the voice of his Naval petty officer, and the scuffle of more boots on the tile floor. _Of course. The more the merrier._

The lanky naval officer’s eyes fleet around the room before he blinks under the stall door. He snaps upwards, eyes fleeting between Mitaka and Ren. “Is that Hux? Hux, is that _you_?”

The fiery haired men’s voice echoes through the stall. He sounds spent. “Yes, Paze.”

“Too much to drink already?”

Kylo snorts. “No, _cold feet_.”

“... You’re kidding,” Paze’s eyes are wide, “Hux, she’s _a really looker,_ I don’t know what you’re so upset about.”

Hux’s voice is hoarse as he gags. “ _She’s beautiful!_ ”

Silence falls in the restroom as the three men grimace at their General’s _clear_ discomfort. Kylo, all the while, is grinning under his mask. Especially as _more_ officers enter the restroom looking for Hux — every mention of the Hosnian Queen has the ginger gagging out of _fear_ . If only Snoke could see his precious general _now._

Hux finally kicks the stall door open, hair wild and looking _quite_ pale, to the entertainment of the gathered First Order officials. He stands, smoothing his suit and carding a hand through his hair as he attempts to compose himself in the mirror. He leans, drinking from the faucet before swishing and spitting. Lank claps him on the shoulder.

“Thatta boy, Commander,” Lank peps, “Just… be _yourself_.”

“A _better_ version of yourself, maybe,” Kylo sneers, “Perhaps one with more confidence. Better looks.”

Armitage heaves a sigh, eyes lulling shut as he reminds himself that murdering Ren is _not_ on the list of acceptable Officer behavior. Especially not at a cocktail dinner party to celebrate his engagement to a _Queen_. Smoothing his unruly hair back, the Commander straightens his shoulders before striding towards the restroom door and heaving it open, ready to face you and —

“Commander Hux, are you alright?”

Blue eyes land directly on you. You’re standing there, beside the drink table, swathed by two of your handmaidens, looking _incredibly regal_ in the black gown he’d ordered from that Ugunti designer on Coruscant. His name sounds like a prayer off your lips and the redhead attempts to stifle his growing affection for you. Hux swallows, trying desperately to ignore the bitter taste in his mouth and the heat in his cheeks. The commander stiffens, offering a tilt of his lips.

“I caught a glimpse of you earlier and then — _well_ , you seemed to vanish.”

“Yes, _yes._ I’m fine. A bit _nervous_ , I apologize” he breathes, “Lieutenant Mitaka said you were asking for me…?”

“Nervous?” it’s a gentle lilt of a word, enough to strike him in the chest as his own hands clasped behind his back. Your lips, crimson and daring, break into a grin and it’s just as devilish a look on you as a scowl. Hux feels small. “No need to be — I wanted to thank you for the dress, Commander.”

You supposed Seeva was right. He _was_ handsome. Tall, too.

Blue eyes meet yours. He realizes this is the most words you’ve spoken to him since your arrival earlier. Hux curses inwardly. He feels the part of a fool. “You’re very welcome, your highness.”

There’s a pause, the conversation stalls and you can’t help but speak up, voice quick and sharp. “Commander, really, I understand how _uncomfortable_ this must be —”

“No, no —”

“But, I do believe it’s important I let you know that I will _try_ my best to maintain an acceptable level of civility around you, Commander. If not for your reputation, then for the sanctity of this marriage and the safety of my home.”

Ever the diplomat. Armitage has to admire the level of poise you hold with your delivery of the blow. You seem to dismiss his clear advance, _his attempt_ with the gift. He rocks back on his heels, jaw clenching as he nods.

“I appreciate your forwardness, your highness,” he breathes, “And I hope do not impose too greatly when I say I wish for you and I to reach a point where it is not so… _difficult_ to be civil.”

“A fair request,” you offer, fingers plucking an offered drink for a waiter, “Though, I assume you understand my… _reluctance_ on becoming _familiar_ so quickly.”

Hux feels his face go rosey at the comment, his brain smothering the double meaning as quickly as it sparks. He takes a drink, a bubbly champagne, and sips it before speaking. “Of course, your highness. And I’d like to honor your wishes to remain in separate quarters for the time being.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

Hux bows a bit at the waist, his lips tilted upwards in a… _sort of_ smile.

Before the conversation can mingle on, dinner is served, and you’re called to your seats.

“Come along, your highness,” Hux offers, hand gesturing to the table in the center of the room, “We have a level of civility to maintain.”

You almost laugh.

_Almost_.


	3. Wolves.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Civility is a bit hard when politics come up over dinner. You remind everyone of your place. You and Hux have your first dance, and he reminds you to watch your step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've settled on the fact this is all set pre-TFA. Kylo is a commander, as well as Hux and their competition hasn't truly ramped up. They'll be a bit more civil with one another, but once promotions start that's OUT THE WINDOW.
> 
> I'm really glad so many of you teetered on the edge of liking/disliking the last chapter - it gave me a great gage about what you guys liked about Hux's characterization. This chapter is more of Hux/Reader getting to know one another and establishing their dynamic.
> 
> Queen!Reader gonna fuck some shit up.

That level of civility mentioned earlier was harder to maintain than you originally thought.

You spend majority of the night feigning disinterest, using your fork to push the exotic meat around and sipping the weak wine that stains your lips darker and darker. Your appetite was gone, really, and you spend the night pinned under the gaze of your father and Armitage Hux and Kylo Ren and greying Empire veterans. Their conversations flow freely across the table, as if you aren’t there, and you can’t help but take note in how easily the older officers _and_ Kylo talk down to your fiance.

It _should_ anger you, you think.

The redheaded man seems to swallow his words and his pride with each belittling blow, eyes meeting his meal. You watch him mimic your own actions as long fingers curl around his fork and prod at the rare bergruutfa steak. His shoulders, before tall with purpose and command, slump slightly. You wonder if he understands how easily his body language betrays him.

“— My wife, the _former_ Queen of Hosnian,” it’s your father’s voice. Your eyes snap to him dangerously fast, eyes icy with unspoken anger, “Well, _she_ had sided with the Rebellion. Though, I never agreed with it.”

You’re not sure how the conversation twists and turns and lands on the topic, but suddenly you’re no longer able to feign disinterest and it’s _noted_ , called to attention and mocked.

“And you, your highness? Did _you_ agree with your mother?”

Your eyes meet the man at the head of the table. He’s older, distressed with wrinkles and a scowl that seems as permanent as his weak chin. So clearly is he an Empire veteran. The age-old views and crotchety bigotry have keyed you into that much. His name is Edrison Peavey and you settle on sharpening your tongue to tear his throat open at the dinner table.

“My mother taught me to fight for those that I love.”

“You’re not answering the question, _girl_.”

Your gaze goes cold and you _feel_ your father stiffen, his gaze hitting the marble table as he clears his throat in discomfort across from you.

Armitage notes the palpable fear in the man’s eyes and the growing temper in your own. Blue eyes are glued to the straightening of your shoulders, the tilt of your chin. You’re _truly_ regal, the picture of a Queen, and the Commander _knows_ Peavey will suffer for that blow to your title. Hux spears his steak, pretending to busy himself with chewing.

“ _Girl_ _?_   I seem to have _misheard_ you, Captain,” you seethe, “Or, maybe, you’ve abandoned your manners elsewhere?”

Your eyes land on Hux, head tilting slightly, as Peavey’s eyes give way to yours. _Weak_. It’s almost laughable how much the redheaded Commander straightens at your attention. His eyes are wide, though you’re unsure of with what emotion. Perhaps it’s surprise. Your words are burning and angry.

“Commander Hux, I was unaware the First Order had a penchant for hiring men plagued with daunting levels of stupidity.”

The room falls quiet, forks halting, eyes glued to the words dropping from your lips. Armitage nearly chokes on the piece of steak in his mouth.

“Captain Peavey,” Hux’s voice is hoarse, “Need I remind you of her title?”

The man blanches. You’re a bit thankful for Hux’s words. Only a bit.

“I apologize, _your highness_ ,” it’s Peavey and his words are bitter, “I simply was inquiring at your dodging of the question.”

“My mother picked the _right_ side during the _first_ Rebellion. And though my father enjoys acting as though it was _her_ idea alone, he was quite excited by the fact our planet’s assets would remain untouched by the Empire, who _at the time_ , were busy vying for the contracts to mine our planet's resources and utilizing our citizens’ finances as means to funnel research into weapons technologies.”

Your father clears his throat and Armitage can’t help but spare a glance towards the flushed father figure. Sweat seems to have beaded along his brow. “A simple benefit.”

It’s Kylo Ren’s turn now. His voice is low, knife digging through the tender meat on his plate. “You said _first_ Rebellion.”

Your eyes land on him. He’s a hard man to read. “I apologize, I was under the impression our galaxy was in the midst of its second.”

“Hardly a rebellion,” Hux begins, voice surging with pride as he explains his mantra, “The Resistance is no threat to the power of the First Order.”

You nearly laugh. The passion is clear in the man’s voice, though it’s blind and misplaced. It makes you want to scream. Surely he’s smarter than to be so brainwashed by this damn dictatorship?

“Am I mistaken in reminding you that last solar cycle, General Leia Organa led an offensive that decimated two of your _mighty_ First Order’s Star Destroyers?” you pluck a piece of steak from your plate and plop it into your mouth, “Mind your tongue, Commander Hux. Arrogance is unbecoming of you.”

Hux is locked in silence then, jaw slack and thoughts flying from his mind. He swallows, pent between admiring with what level of poise you wound the men at the table and reminding you of your place on _this_ Star Destroyer — though, part of him knows he may never be able to speak down to you. He admires you far too much already.

Kylo, eyes dark and hair wild as always, stops Hux from having to confront his fiance. The two spare a glance, and for a moment, Hux thinks perhaps Kylo is _amused_.

“And how do _you_ know so much about General Organa’s activities with the Resistance?”

“It’s called the HoloNet,” your eyes turn to Kylo’s challenging the raven haired man, “I’m assuming you’ve heard of it, Commander Ren?”

Kylo’s lips flip upwards. Hux feels the color drain from his face.

 _Oh, dear god, she’s challenging_ him.

Your father’s voice cuts through the conversation; your name is hot on his mouth, drenched with warning. It’s enough to stifle your attitude for now, chin a bit higher than before. The older man quickly attempts to move the conversation away from the dangerous territory it had steered itself into and you return to your feigned disinterested state as Hux tries to desperately to not admire you so _openly._

* * *

A single gloved hand meets your waist as you clutch his other hand gently. The proximity is enough to breed discomfort from both parties. The music that lulls in the background of the dinner party is hardly enough to waltz to yet the room insists — Hux allows a slight sway to venture into his normally rigid step. You seem so fluid, easy to sway and step and turn, dress kissing the ground with every moment. The dance is stiff, though, not one between lovers but between strangers.

Nausea rises in his throat at your fingers curl into the collar of his uniform. But, the eyes in the room spur him on and he tries his best to swallow the bile down and push his nerves aside. Armitage tries to steal his gaze from your rosey cheekbones and thick lashes and red lips — he _tries,_ really he does — and finally he finds his voice.

“You have quite the mouth,” Hux blanches, brows screwing together slightly as he realizes how _off_ that sounds, “Wit — I mean. You’re… _scathing_ and honest, your highness.”

Your laugh is like bells. “Blame politics.”

From this close, his cologne is a bit dizzying — strong and dark and a reminder of his wealth. Commander of the First Order is nothing to bat a lash at. It’s clear Armitage Hux takes pride in his job as well. His uniform is immaculate. Not a hair on his head is out of place. His aftershave is just as pleasant as his cologne and you don’t mind it in the slightest.

Part of you wishes you did mind.

His own laugh is a bit tight, restrained and reserved. A _slight_ chuckle.

“I see,” he breathes, “Politics.”

You smooth his collar, eyes meeting the starched creases of his shoulders. He’s taller than you, and you raise your chin to meet his gaze. Gentle eyes trace the sharp angles of his cheekbones. “Makes a woman mean. If I’m not… biting with my words? No one pays any mind. _Quiet women seldom_ —”

“— _Seldom rile up an entire table of First Order senior officers?”_

“Well, _that_ ,” you smirk, “But, _seldom make history_ as well.”

“You ought to be careful. Words like that about the Resistance will earn you a spot in front of a firing squad, your highness.”

His words bite a bit. You search his eyes. You know he’s right, and Hux knows he’s only telling you with hopes that it won’t come to that.

“Does the idea of your new wife being labeled a Resistance sympathizer scare you, Commander?” you mumble, eyes fleeting around the room as the dance continues. The room’s eyes are trained on you and him as your dress train curls around you both on the floor.

“You’re not my wife yet,” Armitage manages, “And until you are, I cannot protect you.”

“I don’t  _need_ protecting.”

He snuffs a laugh. “Remind me of that when you’ve been pegged as a _traitor_ , your highness.”

You inhale sharply, pushing the urge to bite back and bear your teeth, but a bit like a wounded animal you resign. He’s right. It hurts, but there’s no escape from this situation and you have to make due.

_For survival, for your home._

The dance ends and your hand rises to meet Hux’s lips. He bows, slow and rigid, before placing a cold kiss against the skin of your knuckles. Your eyes meet his and his meet yours and you swear that for a moment, you could maybe call this man your husband. Maybe lovingly, during the quiet stirr of the morning.

And then the room fills with applause and you’re rocketed back to reality.

You’re a wounded deer in a room full of wolves.

 _For Hosnian_ , you think, _and for your mother._


	4. Romance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You visit Hux in his office, borrow a book, and tie him tighter around your finger. With the New Year approaching, talk of a party on Canto Bight spurs Hux to swallow his pride and tempt romance with you.

The next few days are  boring.

In space, there’s little to no indicator about day and night  — only the changing of shifts of the guards outside your door and the thrum of alarms beckoning the night staff to their posts. Sleep evades you, and instead you’re rolled in and out of nightmares.

You wake to your meal laying on your desk each morning, tea on your bedside. No doubt that it’s Seeva’s work. You eat, you read, you bathe. You wait. You’re not really quite sure  what  you’re waiting for… Perhaps a visitor — your father, even _Hux_ … But no one comes, and you begin to drown in the silence of your room.

So, on the third day of no visitors you eat, you read, you bathe, you dress. Your gown is plain — long and sweeping with delicate lace sleeves and a neckline that sweeps low. It’s blue. You feel _fragile_ in it — a stark reminder of femininity aboard this Star Destroyer. Seeva braids your hair, tight and thick and allows deft fingers to loop flowers from Hosnian into the masterpiece, all while reminding you to be more mindful of your words.

The increased presence of guards were no doubt thanks to your comments about the Resistance the other night.

You leave Seeva and the girls behind, opting to make your way to the bridge alone — surely bringing a gaggle of handmaidens to the command deck would be looked down upon. You weren’t even entirely sure how your own presence would be received. But, clutching your gown and striding past the guards posted beside your doorway, you pay it all no mind. Even as the black armored troopers follow you six paces back, you carry on.

The deck is bustling with officers, troopers and the like. As the doors to the main elevator swing open and reveal the vast expanse of communication equipment and officers posted at them, you’re a bit surprised to come face to face with the one and only Kylo Ren.

You recoil slightly, sidestepping and pausing in the doorway of the elevator. He seems to do the same thing, mask betraying an emotional response sparked by your appearance. Beside him, Phasma towers in her chromium armor. The two make an odd pair, but you offer a gentile bow.

“Commander Ren. Captain Phasma.”

“Our resident Queen. May I ask what brings you to the command deck?” Kylo’s voice dips low with something — _amusement_ , maybe? “Has your fiance _neglected_ you for long enough?"

A smile twitches onto your lips. You lean, un-intimidated by Snoke’s apprentice and poster child of the First Order. He’s young — baby-faced in all respects. His rivalry with Hux is apparent, and you can’t help but find your allegiance already laying with the redheaded commander. “I’m inclined to inform you that’s none of your business, Commander Ren.”

Under his mask, Kylo’s lips twitch into a boyish grin. You’re a lot like this mother — in attitude and strength and gall. He admires it, really, though the force nags him with each word from your lips. It bites at his heels as a reminder of his past, and the Knight of Ren finds it  easier  to feign disinterest and forget about you. The towering man is quick to step past you, slipping into the elevator as you take your first steps onto the glossy deck of the bridge. Phasma follows him wordlessly.

Kylo you’re not scared of, no, but her?  She  scares you.

“Do send Commander Hux my _love_ , your highness.”

Kylo’s respirator hisses with amusement as you watch the doors slip shut. Your guards post themselves by the doors of the lift and you turn, realizing nearly the whole deck has their eyes glued to you. The Officers by the main controls whisper something to one another as you approach, feeling heavy under the weight of the gazes beneath the catwalk.

You catch the eyes of a familiar officer — pausing, you bow a bit and offer the young girl a small smile. She’s standing by the main controls clutching a tray of cafs, clearly fetched for the senior officers before her. Her wide, doe-eyed look blossoms when she spots you.

“Junior Lieutenant Stynnix,” you breathe as eyes of her fellow officers drift backwards to the blushing girl, “It’s good to see you.”

From her spot on deck, the young girl bows slightly only to tip the tray of coffees and quickly move to snatch them before they fall. She blinks, swallowing hastily as her words stumble from her lips. “Your highness. I… Thank you, your highness, it is good to see you as well.”

The elevator to your lift hisses open.

“And to _what_ do we owe  this  _honor_ , your highness?”

It’s Peavey. The grovel of his voice meets your ears and you try to mask the evident annoyance growing on your face with each step he takes. Sparing Stynnix a look, you turn and come face to face with the lowly elder. You don’t waste your time in curtsying. Not to this man. His boots stomp against the deck with each step and within moments he’s before you, eyes critical. The officers flanking his sides look just as unimpressed with you as him.

“I am looking for General Hux,” you speak slowly, head tilting. Your braid shifts, slipping from your shoulder and down your back. You feign innocence. “Perhaps you and your  _bellboys_   could point me in the correct direction.”

You spot an officer clap a gloved hand over his mouth, attempting to stifle a smile. Mischief blooms in your chest and behind you, Stynnix swears you’re the most amazing woman she’s ever met. The bridge shifts into a palpable sense of amusement, eyes bright as Peavey growls and points.

“Hux’s office is the door on the right,” he snarls, “Just listen for the incessant howling of that  _horrid_   cat of his.”

_ Cat? _

You weren’t that shocked, really. Hux  _did_ seem like a cat person.

“Thank you,” you toss him a wave, “Don’t let my lack of presence distract you, Peavey.”

“ _Hardly_ a distraction, your highness.”

Slipping past Peavey, you offer him a faux-smile before dipping your head at Stynnix. The female officer tenses, blinking quickly as Peavey snatches his caf from her hands.

Hux’s office, sure enough, is the large room down the hall off the main bridge to the right. His full name is embossed into the door and you can’t help but admire the strength of it.  _Armitage Hux _ . It’s quite the nice name to say. It was charming and strong and  fitting  for a commander.

Your knuckles meet the metal of the door, wrapping lightly and  sure enough , your knocking is met with curious mews — certainly not from Hux, no. His voice meets your ears, gentle and chastising. You hear his boots against the floor, quick and brisk.

“Milli, away from the door.”

His office door slides open, revealing the tall commander and the bundle of fur in his arms. He looks surprised to see you, blue eyes wide with shock as he blinks down at you in the doorway and clears his throat. The cat in his arms is big — orange and striped and looking like her owner in every respect. Her big eyes fleet to you just as her owner’s do. You can’t help but smile.

“Your highness,” Commander Hux blanches, stammering a bit as he speaks, “What brings you to my office so early in the day?”

The cat in his arms ( _Milli_   was it?) mews, a quick  _brrp _ of recognition as you reach out and stroke her chin. The normally disgruntled feline accepts the scritches happily, purring lightly as you grin. Your eyes are light with amusement.

“I was bored."

Hux’s lips twitch as he watches you — only to step aside and motion for you to enter his office. You do so, giving him a moment to admire the grace with which you do. You’re shorter than him, even in those daring heels that peek from the hem of your sheer gown, but Hux feels small under your gaze. Nudging the door shut with the toe of his boot, Milli is eagerly squirms to the floor. The commander huffs, hands working to attempt to brush the orange hairs from his uniform.

Hux’s office is big. Neat, too. His desk is the only bit of the room that seems touched — papers are strewn about there, datapads and folders decorating the marble surface. Two large chairs sit in front of his desk, no doubt used for entertaining other officers, though it seems his cat has made one her home. She leaps happily into the chair, purring and eyeing you carefully.

“You never  _said_ you had a cat.”

Hux chuckles, crossing the room and settling in his chair behind his desk. You wander, eyes tracing the bookcases lining the far wall of his office. Outside, the stars slip past slowly.

“You never asked.”

Peeking at him over your shoulder, you can’t help the mild amusement playing on your lips. “Any other  _children_ I should be aware of, then?”

Milli _murps_ , whiskers twitching at the sound of her owner’s laughter. It’s a rare sound — a bit like a wheeze, a bit like a bark. It’s as if he’s forgotten how to, you think.

“No,” he shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. His eyes roam your back, across the bare plane of skin your dress leaves exposed — your shoulder blades shift as you reach for a holobook, “Millicent is the only...  _child_    I’ll be bringing to the marriage. If you could call her that. She is a _cat_ , after all.”

Another _mew_. Hux gives the feline a look. You pretend not to notice. Your fingers skim the pages of the tome of military tactics, eyes light as you place it back in its designated spot.

“She’s quite cute,” you say, sparing him a glance.

He looks handsome — poised and professional. His greatcoat is slung over the back of his desk chair, creating a canvas for his profile as he turns to his work. His hands, bare and pale, skim through the paper on his desk before he settles on the holopad he’d been working on before you interrupted. You note the tilt of his brows at the compliment, especially as Millicent offers a rather loud meow. Blue eyes glance up, fleeting between you and Milli.

“She can be insufferable at times,” he offers, eyes turning back to his work as your fingers curls into Milli’s fur, “She wakes up earlier every morning, I _swear_ , demanding to be fed.”

“I can relate,” you chide, “My sleep cycle is rather…  _ messy_, too, Milli. There’s no sunrise or sunset in space. Just darkness.”

Milli _cheeps_ , nudging her head against your hand.

“It takes a bit of getting used to, I’ll admit,” Hux breathes, shoulders slumping slightly as his gaze returns to his work, “Sleep is hard to come by with the end of the year coming closer.”

“I imagine things are busy for you?”

You move back to the bookcase, fingers drifting along the spines of the books as Milli hops from her spot on the chair to weave between your legs. She pokes beneath your dress and you smile.

“Ridiculously so. I apologize for not…  seeing  you at all these last few days,” his eyes are a bit soft with apology. You blink, eyes dipping along the curve of his cheekbones, “I’ve hardly had enough time to feed myself.”

“No apologies needed, Commander.”

He’s half tempted to insist you drop the title — alone, it bears no weight. It falls from your lips so easily though, and it stokes a sense of pride in his chest. His ego gets the better of him, and he abandons the thoughts of ‘Armitage’ falling from your mouth for the time being. ‘Commander’ is enough.

Silence lulls between the both of you, and where as Hux would normally insist on his privacy while doing paperwork, your presence is welcomed. You don’t chatter incessantly like Mitaka or aim to tear him down like Kylo Ren. No, you silently purse through his library tugging out titles that interest you. He steals a look every now and again, sipping his caf and smiling ever-so-slightly to himself. You’re quiet for a while — until you speak with a clear tone of amusement.

A book dangles from your fingers, eyes bright with humor.

“I have to admit,” you grin, “I never took you for the  _romantic_   type, Commander.”

Hux can feel his face heat up, tips of his ears going a bit rosey as you skim through the pages of the  The Princess and the Kiss.  It’s an old book he’s had for ages — long enough he can’t really remember how he acquired it. Sure enough, it’s no art of war or weapons glossary. No, the book is shameless in it’s romanticization of love.

“I do not have  time  for _romance_ ,” Hux mumbles, “A novel fills the gap.”

Your smile is enough to wake his nerves back up, eyes tracing the sinful way you thumb through the pages. You move, leaning against the edge of his desk as Milli eagerly paws at the train of your dress. Hux swallows, icy eyes feigning a sense of composure.

“Would it be alright if I borrowed this?” your smile is gentle, “I quite like romance.”

Hux nods, cheeks rosy. You have to admit you like the look of it. “Of course.”

Silence stifles the room again, this time palpable with Hux’s apparent affections brimming in his chest and with your content smile as you settle to pet Milli. It’s a moment or two before Hux speaks again. He’s hesitant. Restrained.

“Speaking of _romance_ ,” he begins, placing his datapad down and turning his gaze to you, “With the New Year only a few days away, there was discussion of a party… The First Order holds a number of weapon contracts with dealers who reside on Canto Bight, and with the New Year, the First Order must renew mentioned contracts. The timing is quite nice."

You blink, eyes creasing slightly with a smile. “A party.”

“I… I had no intention of attending, though I figured you may enjoy getting off this ship if only for a day or so,” he stands then, movements a bit more nervous than before, “Do not feel as though you must  —”

“I’d love to, Commander.”

He blinks, words stalling in his throat as he tilts his head. “You would?”

“I’ve never been to Canto Bight,” you tuck the book under your arm, scooping Milli up and plopping her onto her spot in her chair. She mews thankfully, “I was never allowed, really. Various members of my council on Hosnian had business contracts there and I was always told it was a bit too _dangerous_ for royalty.”

“ _Hardly_ dangerous,” Hux mumbles, “If you’re with the right people.”

“I trust you’ll keep me  _safe_ then, Commander.”

Your voice is light with jest, fingers curling around his collar as you lean upwards and catch his cheek. It’s chaste, but Hux swears his heart might just  stop  then and there. Milli gives a proud meow and you grin, plucking a few stray cat hairs from his officer’s uniform. You can’t help but find the way in which he blushes a bit charming. Curling your fingers around the book he’d lent you, you move towards the door only to have him hurry to pull it open for you. You smile.

“Thank you,” you wave the book, “I’ll be seeing you soon — I doubt this will take long for me to finish.”

“I look forward to it, your highness.”

He bends slightly, his bow as polished as his personality.

If he wasn’t some haughty First Order commander, you’d already be keen on marrying him, you think. For now, you’re hesitant. Commitment to him means commitment to the Order your mother had been vying to smother alongside General Organa in secret.

Commitment to him meant many things, but stringing him along meant more information to pass along to Seeva’s dear friend Poe Dameron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, shit, damn boy.
> 
> The plot THIQQens.


	5. Luck.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Years on Canto Bight has you liking Armitage against your better judgement. Drinks and kisses are shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG.
> 
> Here's 2.8k of absolute flirt-city to make up for the wait.
> 
> HAPPY BELATED NEW YEAR, MY LOVES.

Canto Bight.

A coastal city —  a sparkling beacon against the sandy dunes of Cantonica. The casino city meets the sea, and the salt air is cold as it kisses the bare skin of your shoulders. It’s shocking how lavish it all is, from the lanterns bathing the streets and golden light to the glittering casino and it’s well-to-do patrons.

You arrive late in the day and the sun has started to set, bathing the city in warm pinks and oranges. The transport is small; about thirty officers aboard and Phasma’s security team would be joining you and Hux. Armitage had to admit that being away from Kylo Ren was a welcomed change of pace. He was less… uptight, already.

You look gorgeous, though, and that’s enough to remind him of his professional title. Your gown is glittering and black — the delicate fabric shines with every micro movement of yours aboard the ship, enough to catch his eye — and Hux can’t help but feel very un-royal next to you. You steal your own glance every now and again, admiring that cutting profile of his before turning your eyes back to the novel he’d been so kind to lend you.

Finally, after an hour or so of travel, the ship rumbles to land and your handmaidens sweep around you. But, Hux clears his throat. From his great coat, he offers a gloved hand as he stands, looming gracefully over the back of your seat.

“If I  _may_ , girls,” he says slowly. You blink at his hand, dark lashes kissing your cheeks.

It’s the young one — Pelari — who speaks. “ _Sir_ , it is our duty to escort the Queen.”

You can’t help but notice how his face twists and falls ever so slightly. “A matter of  _professionalism_ , Commander Hux. I’m sure you understand.”

Hux clears his throat, feeling a bit embarrassed, before giving you a curt nod. “Of course, there are levels of  _formality_  that must be upheld —”

“Rather  _boring_  formalities. Though, once we’ve arrived at the casino,” You stand then, tucking your book away into the satchel Seeva offers and clasping your hands neatly in the front of your gown. Just like your mother taught you. His eyes are a bit wide as you smile, “You can hold my hand as much as you’d like.”

Hux simply swallows, gesturing with a nod and a wave of his hand for Phasma and her men to take the lead of the parade. The sooner he gets these meetings over with, the more time he can spend holding your hand.

* * *

Your room is spacious and quite nice, though with the New Year the casino had been incredibly booked. Even for the First Order and even for a Queen, the rooming situations weren’t exactly ideal. You’d be sharing a room with all the girls, apparently, as Hux had insisted that sharing a room with him would be wildly inappropriate. You couldn’t help but feel as though he was saying it as a reminder to himself.

Seeva and Mela were busy rolling out cots while you were manhandled into the chair by the vanity. It’s Jeei, wide-eyed and excited. She’s the younger of the four, sister of Pelari — her voice is soft.

“Are you going to fall in love with  _him_?”

Seeva glances up from her spot on the floor, eyes trained on your face. You sense her apprehension. Your own chest tightens at the question — Hux had begun to grow on you. It wasn’t good.

“If I must,” You sigh, meeting her eyes, “If he trusts me, he’ll trust you. And that means more information going to the Resistance.”

Seeva frowns. “You must be careful — acting like you’re in love… You’re too  _kind_. You’ll find his faults and you’ll look past them. But, you must remember who he is, your highness.”

“A murderer.”

“A neo-Imperialist.”

“He is to be my husband,” you sigh eyes fleeting from the four of them to the ground, “He is all of those things  _and_  my husband. I am bound to him, no matter his titles or vices or…  _ideals_. But, I intend to use it to our advantage.”

Seeva nods and the room grows still.

“Have you spoken to Poe?”

“No,” she looks sad — she misses him, you know — and turns her eyes to the floor, “He is on an assignment in the outer rim.”

You hope someday you can be as in love as Seeva and Poe. She spoke about kissing him once — like kissing sunshine. Warm and true and so  _permanent_  that she said she felt it for weeks after. He was a good man. Honest and kind and strong and you can’t deny that the idea of seeing them married would be wonderful.

“I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon, Seeva.”

“He misses you just as much, I’m sure.”

And so you wander to the balcony and wait for the party to begin.

* * *

“I presume  _now_  would be the appropriate time to hold your hand?”

The atmosphere of the casino is rowdy. The glittering and golden establishment is littered with First Order soldiers and officers alike — gambling, drinking and laughing — and you’re so suddenly reminded at how the First Order was just like any other military. Built on the backs of young men and women wanting more for themselves, men and women who had no other choice than to enlist.

Armitage had been anxious to finish his meetings with the weapon contractors; if not to get it all over with and secure future investments, then to see you. You’d looked breathtaking aboard the transport. Now, in the same glittering, form fitting slip of a gown, Hux finds it a little harder to focus. You smile, eyes bright with laughter before slipping your own arm through his offered one.

“I thought you’d stood me up.”

“Never,” Armitage admits, making his way through the crowded gambling floor and to the bar, “I must apologize. The meetings took longer than expected.”

“No need to apologize, Commander Hux,” you grin, clambering onto a barstool and crossing your legs. His hand is warm against the small of your back as he steadies you, a simple gesture of chivalry, and you catch his gaze fleet back to the four handmaidens lingering by the bottom of the stairs.

You feel the girls hovering,  _watching_  — you feel a bit guilty for settling in a seat beside Hux, for being so amicable. You seek Seeva out, motioning her forward, hand meeting her arm with a gentle touch. You whisper, lips to her ear. 

“I’ll be alright. Go have fun. I’ll see you tonight, yes? Be safe.”

“Of course, your highness.”

Hux watches with interest, blue eyes dipping along the curves of your throat as you speak. You’re an elegant woman — always poised, always regal, always…  _distant_. Hux can't help but wonder what you’re like stripped of the need to maintain an image. The handmaid's leave, and he finds himself relax a bit.

“Have you finished that novel I lent you yet?”

You steal a smile as the bartender nears, taking your orders. Hux orders some plain Bespian bourbon over ice and you settle for L’lahsh — it was an Alderaan staple once. But now, a common drink served in honor of the lost planet. It’s gold and shimmers with carbonation. The stem of the glass is slim in your grip.

“I haven’t finished it, no,” you sip your drink, “I’m just getting to the part where the princess declares her ever-growing  _affections_  for that misguided, tortured fellow.”

“The General?”

“ _Yes_ ,” you laugh, noting how easily the plot comes to mind. He’s clearly read it more than once, “It isn’t a horrible read. I was expecting more  _steamy romance scenes_  for a novel found in a soldier’s quarters.”

Armitage feels his face go hot and opts to sip his drink. He shrugs his greatcoat from his shoulders, slipping it across the back of the chair. “No, there are  _holovids_  if you’re looking for that type of content, your highness.”

You laugh, head falling back and eyes fleeting shut. It’s a divine sound. Hux admires his handiwork. Riling a laugh out of you flushes his chest with pride. He settles against the back of his barstool. His knee knocks your own. You find yourself a bit rosy in the cheeks as he steals a glance at your smile before ducking his head.

“You can call me by my name, you know.”

He pauses, drink halfway to his lips. “I’m sorry?”

“My name — It’s not just…  _Queen_  or  _your highness_. I have a name,” you twiddle with you drink, crossing your arms and watching emotions shift through his face, “We’re to be married. I wouldn’t want you to be calling me those things forever, after all. You can say my name.”

“Then, that I’ll do,” a curt nod, a smile twitching across his lips, “Only if you’ll do the same.”

“Armitage is a lovely name,” your drink is hot on your tongue, “Handsome and strong.”

The commander finds himself a bit awe-struck, fumbling for words. He’s never  _flirted_  — it’s clear that’s what this is. It’s a tango of words, interlocking you both in affection and… Hux swallows, feeling everything  _but_  handsome and strong. This was not his strength. Logic and strategy was.

“You must forgive me,” he blinks, light eyelashes batting slightly, “I must admit I am horrible with…  _this_.”

“Talking?” you chide, “Or drinking?”

It stirs a laugh from his chest and you grin. The sound is quite nice.

“Or perhaps breathing? It’s quite hard I hear. I wouldn’t know,” you lean, winking, “I’ve been dead inside for  _years_.”

“No thanks to the tight collar around your neck,” Hux battles back, “I had no idea Queens couldn’t  _hold hands._ ”

That bubbles laughter out of you and you shake your head. You feel normal. In this bar, in this casino — with him. For once you don’t feel cradled. Hux finds himself in the same position. He’s never had time for flirting and drinking and romance. His entire life has been dedicated to the First Order — it defined him. And now? Now, he’s finding he quite like the way you make him feel.

“Tell me, Armitage, do you gamble?”

“No,” Hux’s voice lilts as he sips his drink, eyes turned to the casino floor. Cheers erupt from the far corner of the room as a woman rakes in a pile of credits, “My vices lie elsewhere, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?”

He taps the lapel of his greatcoat. You spy the black carton of cigarettes. It riles a hum out of your chest — it stirs an odd emotion inside you. You’d never would have pegged him for the smoking type. Far too clean-cut.

“And you?” Armitage pries, nearly the bottom of his bourbon, “Does the Queen gamble?”

“Never tried.”

Your fingers slip to the clutch draped over your shoulder. The slim chain slips against your skin as you pry it open. Inside, 500 credits. Your eyes are light with mischief.

“But, there are firsts for everything.”

You try to tell yourself it’s all part of the plan — smiling, laughing, standing so close to him at the tables. He kisses the dice in your fingers and you catch yourself lingering on the thought of his lips on yours. It makes you want to be sick; Seeva is right. She’s always right. You’re too kind. But, for now, you drown yourself in the moment and forget the Resistance. If only for a moment.

His hand is hot on the small of your back as you lean and cast the dice across the velvet table. Armitage can’t help but smile as you blink back up at him — the table erupts into cheers and you gawk. A pile of credits is slid your way, twice your bid size, and Armitage chuckles at your evident excitement.

The table is loud, surrounded by a crowd of party-goers and officers. The eyes have landed on you — hands motioning wildly for you to roll again. You raise the dice and smile up at Armitage nice and sweet.

“Another kiss, please?” you raise your brows, “Seems you’re good luck.”

“If you say so.”

He doesn’t bother to tear his gaze from yours as he kisses the die; his bourbon has settled in his belly — warm and hot and strong — and Hux feels a bit more confident in his actions. You notice how his cheeks glow pink. Your own drink is clutched tightly in your other hand. You make a motion to down it before tossing the dice.

The stem hit the wooden edge of the table and moments later, the crowd erupts into gleeful cheers.

You motion to the bar.

“A round — all on me.”

* * *

Below you, the rumble of the fathiers and roar of the crowd reverberates in your chest. The race makes a pass and you marvel at how the party-goers on the balcony beside you pay no mind to the deafening rumble. The white lights of the racetrack glow along the horizon. You can’t help but shiver; it’s late now, nearing midnight.

Beyond the glass doors of the balcony, the casino is rowdy with party-goers who have begun to feel the sweeping warmth of alcohol buzz through their systems. You spy a group of younger officers. They seem more relaxed, less like First Order officials. They’re huddled together on the balcony with drinks in hands and eyes alight with mischief and amusement. You spy Mitaka and Stynnix sitting awfully close, chattering away over colorful martinis. You can’t help but smile.

Hux finds his way onto the balcony, hair a bit wilder than usual, a cigarette between his fingers and smoke mingling around him like a halo. He’d ventured to the bar, snagging you both flutes of champagne. You accept the drink graciously, letting the industrial smell of his cigarette wash over you. The commander leans on the balcony, posture lacking it’s normal rigidity. It’s clear he’s buzzed. He’s not so skittish.

“It’s beautiful up here.”

“That it is,” he breathes, smoke swirling from his lips. Armitage takes a drag from the cigarette before exhaling long and hard; he toes the butt into the marble floor with his dress shoe, “Are you cold?”

He must have seen you shiver. You blink, moving to open your mouth. _I’m fine._ But, he’s swept his greatcoat from his shoulders already, settling it upon your own. It swallows you whole, but it’s warm and it smells like his cologne. You swear you spy a hair of Millicent’s lingering by the collar, but you simply smile and tug it close around your shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“You’re to be my wife,” he mutters, “Can’t have you freezing to death.”

His hand is there, again, lingering by your waist and it’s a little bit like gravity. Armitage doesn’t know why he does it; at this point, it feels natural. Your shoulder meets his chest and he watches you grasp you drink and lean ever so slightly into his hold. Below the balcony, the fathiers make another pass and the casino quakes.

“This was fun,” you say, words slow and gentle.

Armitage catches your gaze as the crowd inside jeers. The casino flies into an uproar as the countdown towards midnight begins. You both turn, spying officers flinging themselves to the balcony as they shout and cheer, chanting the numbers down to the second —

_“Four!”_

_“Three!”_

You laugh, spying Hux’s smile.

_“Two!”_

_“One!”_

The reverberating booms of fireworks rocket overhead and you flinch, pressing yourself a bit closer into Armitage’s arms. The redheaded Commander watches as the couples along the balcony drag one another into ragged and drunk kisses — sloppy and happy — and he turns back to find you blinking up at him through thick lashes. His chest hammers home like the bursts of color in the sky.

“Happy New Year, Commander Hux,” you smile, leaning close — he can smell your perfume; it’s more intoxicating than the champagne, “Perhaps I could get a kiss? For  _luck_ , of course.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

It’s chaste — his hands find your jaw, flute long since abandoned in favor of the touch of your skin. Your own fingers knot in his uniform, tugging slightly on his sleeves. He tastes like whiskey and order and cigarettes and logic. Clean and cutting. You find that you like it. You linger, lips pulling from his own only after you tug your eyes open and watch his delicate features shift into a boyish smile. He tries to hide it. The corners of his mouth tug downward and you think it’s adorable.

Your stomach stirs with conflict. But, it’s not until he smiles, real and genuine, that you know you’re going to lose this battle within.

“Happy New Year, your highness.”


	6. Dinner.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Armitage share dinner. The rumors of a planned coronation on Hosnian come to light. You stir up a fight in the command center - for good reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AFTER A YEAR, here's a 4.1k chapter. I love you all, thank you for being patient.

Armitage Hux wakes up the morning after New Years with a nagging headache that gnaws at his temples with every loud kick of the transport’s engines. **  
**

Canto Bight grows smaller beneath the ascending ship, and as you lean towards the bay window to watch the rising sun spill oranges and pinks over the glass gambling city, Armitage can’t help but wonder how you look so put together.

Perhaps that’s the perks of having handmaidens.

You’d both stayed up late watching the fireworks from the back balcony of the casino as fathiers raced under-foot. The kiss you’d shared had been nothing but a breath of fresh air for Armitage albeit brief and tentative, and now – muscled between Phasma and Captain Peavey – he wishes nothing more than to be out of this stuffy cabin and back on that damn balcony.

Carding a gloved hand through dark crimson hair, Armitage tries to quell the unruly, thick strands. He feels…  _unkempt_. Stubble lines his jaw and he’s never felt so desperate about his need for a morning shave. So, he clings to his thermos of caf and exhales softly, crossing his legs and trying to ignore the pounding in his head and how with every jostle of the ship, Phasma and Peavey cram him into his seat tighter.

He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

You feel bad you can’t reach out and offer some sort of comfort. Seeva’s eyes are critical of even your gaze. She’d caught you staring at Commander Hux a minute into the flight and had unceremoniously dug her heel into your ankle as reprimand; in your seat, you can’t help but feel like a chastised child, not a Queen. So, you stay quiet and steal glances at the tired profile of the redheaded commander when you can.

You’re lost in the rolling guilt of feeling the way you do, treading water in a Resistance alliance.

Finally, the  _Supremacy_ warps back into sight and the cabin grows restless – once upon deck, the reception is fast and not nearly as formal as the one you’d received the first time you’d set foot upon the ship. You’re thankful for the lack of pomp and circumstance, and as your handmaidens sweep your train from the floor, Armitage makes his way to your side. Seeva is a buffer. She pretends not to listen.

His boots tap against the black mirror of the hangar floor.

“I was thinking about dinner.”

“Oh? So soon?” you say, voice soft with curiosity. You’re aware of the eyes and ears watching. It’s apparent he is as well. From the back of the parade, you’re sure you’ve heard Phasma scoff.

Armitage’s heart hammers at the response. Perhaps he is being a bit excitable. And still, he pursues.

“Perhaps in my quarters?” Armitage offers delicately, wary of the reaction of the girls swathed around you.

You’re fast to accept the invitation. Your steps are slow. You eye Kylo Ren on the bridge.

“That sounds wonderful, Commander, thank you.”

“Of course.”

He’s curt, long legs carrying him ahead of the pack – his gaze is icy on the sith apprentice upon the bridge, and you wonder how deeply that rivalry is truly rooted. The last you see of him is a flash of red hair and the sweep of his greatcoat; he’s gone as quickly as he’d spoken, and your disappointment must have shown on your face.

“We should pick a gown out, then,” Seeva says, gripping your arm, “And ready you for  _dinner_.”

You try to smother the sinking feeling on your chest.

* * *

The moment the doors to your quarters aboard the Supremacy slide shut, the words of Seeva are at your throat – they’re daring, no doubt fueled by the substance in them.

“I spoke to Poe.”

Maybe it’s heartache that has the young maiden so volatile. Poe has always been her balance. Like a flower missing the sun, Seeva has grown uncomfortable with the distance – like a planet with no star to orbit. It’s no doubt she misses him; the way she says his name proves it.

“He’s safe?”

“Yes,” Seeva is fast, “While you were losing yourself with that monster, he passed along word that the First Order has begun occupying outposts along the outer rim. They’re using pirates – outsourcing to make it look less like a  _military occupation_  and more like coordinated effort by outlaws.”

You ignore the insult. You exhale and settle on the edge of the bed.

Mela, Jeei, and Pelari look as if they’ve already heard the news. You can see there’s more.

The air is thick. Outside, space rolls by.

“You’re not telling me something.”

Seeva takes a breath. She’s pacing now.

You knot your fingers in your lap. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“There have been rumors that the Palace on Hosnian has begun preparing for a coronation ceremony.”

In a beat, the color is gone from your face. Anger settles in your cheeks, striking a hammering chord in your chest. You ignore the want to scream, to throw your hands and riot. Years of practice present you as calm. And that scares the four of the handmaidens the most.

“Then perhaps I should ready myself for dinner,” you start slowly, “And pray the rumors are untrue.”

Seeva only nods.

Jeei speaks softly. “You kissed him last night. We saw.”

“We all have roles to play, Jeei,” you snap, “Let me play  _mine_.”

“Yes, your highness.”

* * *

He spends the entire afternoon in a meeting that settles dread deep in his gut.

“Commander.”

Hux tugs the door to his quarters open sharply the second your knuckles meet the metal. Maybe he’s eager, maybe he’s nervous – he’s some cocktail of both, but the glass of wine he’d been sipping on moments ago has already made its way to his cheeks, painting them rosey.

He tries not to think of how much you’ll hate him come tomorrow morning.

With a wave of your hand – a simple raise of delicate fingers – the women behind you leave with quiet steps down the long hall. With your handmaidens dismissed, his lips quirk enough to count for a smile, and he motions you inside.

“Come in,” he says gently, “Away from the  _prying eyes_ of our cohorts.”

You laugh and Armitage’s heart soars at the sound.

The sound of Milli’s paws hitting the floor as she launches herself from her perch meets your ears first – the tinker of her collar is followed, and then you’re greeted with an excitable howl of appreciation. Ignoring the formalities that follow the gown you’d been zipped into, you kneel and scoop her up eagerly. The ginger cat purrs, head butting against your chin in greeting.

Armitage hums. Slim, pale fingers move to pet Millicent in your arms.

“Seems you two are getting along just fine,” Armitage says, moving across the room and towards the spacious kitchenette, “I’m rather  _glad_ – she is normally quite finicky with others.”

You take the time to eye the quarters of the First Order commander – the room is huge, outfitted with a kitchen, dining area and sleeping quarters off to the back. You spy a desk near the large bay window in his bedroom and it comes as no surprise. You wonder if Armitage even sleeps.

It’s nearly spotless, save for a bit of a mess he’d created when cooking. The bottle of uncorked wine catches your eye.

“Drinking so soon?”

If only she knew.

Hux, with his back to you and busying himself with one of the pans on the stove, snorts. “Was it  _that_ apparent I was hung-over?”

“Incredibly.”

He goes sheepish at that – he’d showered haphazardly prior to the meeting with Kylo and Snoke and your father, running a straight edged blade over his jaw to try and rid him of the lingering remnants of a long night on Canto Bight.

(He’d be lying if he’d said he’d done it wholeheartedly. Parts of him wished this meticulous upkeep of his professional facade could slip, if only for a day.)

You move smoothly through the room, letting Milli leap onto the kitchen island. She brrps in Hux’s direction, sniffing the air. The slow sizzle of vegetables and meat fill the room as you gather your own glass. Armitage watches you from the corner of his eye, noting how delicately you pour the wine. The mere motion is incredibly regal, and for a moment? He’s intimidated.

And then you smile up at him, and he’s knees go a bit weak at the attention.

“Your father mentioned you liked kibi strips,” he offers, moving to roll the sleeves of his ink black uniform dress shirt. The movement seems rehearsed, like he needs to get the crease of the roll perfect. He stirs the meat on the pan, timekeeper glinting in the lights of the kitchen, “So I thought,  _maybe_ , I’d try my hand at it.”

You fight the urge to snarl at the thought of your father. No doubt he remains on the bridge, playing officer and diplomat – the lack of his presence has been welcomed these last few weeks. The man fears you. You’re thankful. You’d been avoiding him like a plague.

You have to shake your head at the mention, smile digging into your cheeks. You laugh a little. “Let me see.”

Your father stopped caring about your tastes when your mother had passed the royal house title to you and not him.

Armitage happily steps aside, letting you slip the spoon from his hand. You hand him your glass of wine and your fingers brush. The contact  _burns_ in the best way. You turn, moving to press the meat into the heat of the pan. He watches, eyes scouring for a moment – he’s openly admiring you under the watchful gaze of Milli on the kitchen island. You’re beautiful.

She mews in agreement.

The braids in your hair are intricate and laced with flowers, leaving expanses of bare skin exposed along your shoulders and decolletage. Your dress is lace and flowing, and you smell like something floral and comforting; he wonders if you feel as out of place as you look in the cold, dark room of his.

You’re like a star, lighting up the air of the entirety of the super-cruiser.

He thinks about warning you, then, to prepare you for what will inevitably break your heart.

“You did good,” you say finally, fingers moving to grab your wine from his fingers, “Smells wonderful.”

“I suppose my attempt to woo you with the call of home didn’t fall short then?” he asks, earnest in his tone.

You brush past him, fingers knitting themselves under Milli’s chin. Your voice is soft with appreciation.  “You’re cooking for me. How could that possibly fall short, Armitage? It’s the gesture that counts.”

You can feel his eyes on you.

He speaks after a beat of a moment.

“I  _do_ hope that I can one day feel like home to you, your highness.”

He hopes. God, he does. Soon, he may be all you have.

That plucks your heartstrings; you turn, eyes sweeping over his high cheekbones and strong brows knotted in concern. He seems to backtrack then, fear in his chest as he misreads the expression on your face.

“ _I’m sorry_ , I did not mean to overstep –”

Your fingers meet the bare expanse of skin along his wrist and he freezes, skin burning at the contact like it had moments ago. It stills him completely, and you move to glide your fingers alone the skin there. His hand falls into yours easily. You speak slowly.

“I am sorry it is difficult for me,” you say, motioning to the room, “To make all this my home, I mean. To make  _you_ my home.”

“Understandable,” he rasps out, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Blue eyes are trained on your fingers toying with his own. He’s putty in your hands.

You hate to admit that you’re proud of it.

“Then let’s eat,” you say, “And maybe I’ll feel a little bit more at home with you.”

How could he even fathom rejecting that offer?

* * *

Dinner acts as a breath of fresh air – like the kiss on Canto Bight, like the freedom he’d yearned for this afternoon.

So suddenly, Armitage doesn’t feel the need to present structure in his dominance, doesn’t feel the need to be so cold or distant. He’s not squared shoulders, he’s not barking orders and the cold cut of a salute.

Within the hour, he’s on his third glass of wine and leaned back into his chair – long legs are kicked out in front of him as he stretches and watches you across the table. He forgets about tomorrow, about the news that will wedge itself between you both.

He’s softer like this, you notice. His usual uniform is lacking it’s usual ranks; his greatcoat is nowhere to be seen, and you wonder if that was a conscious move. The separation of work from romance seems so simplistic, so innate, yet it surprises you. Armitage Hux is a man built on the back of the First Order. And still, throughout dinner, he doesn’t even merely glance in the direction of his desk in the far corner of his sleeping quarters.

You, perched in his dining area, are the center of his attention.

You find you like the change in his demeanor. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the food. Maybe it’s the way his polished boots nudge your own heeled toes beneath the table.

Maybe it’s all of it.

He’s easy to talk to, you realize, and find that your commonalities lie within dry humor and holovids – and the lack of time to merely enjoy those things.

You speak of senatorial duties and he speaks of drilling soldiers.

Seeva would want you to take notes. You don’t.

Once dinner is finished, Armitage smiles at his hands and begins fiddling with an unlit cigarette he’d dug from the carton tucked into his ink black slacks. For now, he’s settled on being happy.

You’re shredding a piece of kibi with your fingers, prodding it Milli’s way as she leans up onto the table and paws at the piece of meat – your face has bloomed into a smile, face close to the orange cat’s nose as she mews and begins to chomp on the piece of steak.

“She likes it.”

“She likes anything,” Hux huffs, thumbing the rolled cigarette between his lips, “She eats better than  _I_ do, the little monster.”

“She’s no  _monster_ –”

Armitage’s buzz is cut short by the three curt knocks on his cabin door. The lighter in his hands flicks closed with a gentle metallic clink, leaving a curl of smoke trailing the cigarette he clings to. Blue eyes snap to your own; you’re straightened yourself. You don’t move when Hux stands and plucks the cigarette from his lips as he exhales.

“What is it?” he calls out, long legs striding towards the door. His voice is loud and bitter, and when the door slides open to reveal a nervous looking Junior Lieutenant Stynnix, you stand.

“Sir, your presence is requested on the bridge.”

Armitage moves to punch the code to slam the door shut, but Stynnix jumps. Her eyes cut through the doorway, landing on you.

“As well as yourself, your highness.”

Armitage’s heart drops.

“At this hour?” Hux mutters, voice dropping. It’s almost pleading, “Can this not wait until  _tomorrow_ morning?”

“The Supreme Leader has insisted we move tomorrow’s meeting up, sir,” a mumble, “I was told to pass that information along, and only that, sir.”

The cigarette in Hux’s lips glows as he snarls with an unspoken sense of panic.

You speak softly, a hand pressed to the curve of Hux’s shoulder, noting the rigidity he takes in the doorway. “We will be right along, Junior Lieutenant. Thank you.”

“I have been asked to escort you,” she says, “By order of Commander Ren.”

“Of course,” Armitage seethes, “ _Of course by the order of Ren_. That insufferable piece of –”

You exhale, pressing your fingers to his back. Your voice lilts into a gentle prod. “Come on, then, Commander. Best to wrap up this meeting. We haven’t finished our wine yet.”

* * *

With you by his side, he waltzes into the wolves’ den without his own usual poise.

Kylo, mask-less and perched in the back corner of the command hub, looks at his counterpart like he’s got three heads. Lacking his ranks and greatcoat, it’s apparent the two of you were busy when Stynnix had called on Hux’s quarters. Judging by your gown, Kylo figures it was dinner – the idiot had mentioned trying to cook earlier in the day, and your father had made a suggestion on a meal.

The room is lined with officers, each gathered around the center console that currently has a portrait of a calendar flickering up on it.

Upon the entrance of you both, the room seems to snap silent and grow six degrees colder; something nasty settles into the pit of your stomach at the realization your father is posed on the upper deck, watching with a mild sense of panic.

The room is quiet. Armitage speaks first.

“Anyone care to tell me,” he begins, voice hitching, “why  _my_ night was interrupted in order to call me to a meeting that was planned for  _tomorrow_ morning?”

More quiet.

Your own irritation grows with the continuous silence.

Kylo hums. “You haven’t told her, then?”

You blink. You narrow your eyes on Kylo. Beside you, Armitage sputters.

“Told her?!” his voice cracks, “The  _discussion_ was set for tomorrow morning’s meeting –”

“ _Right_ ,” Kylo presses forward, sweeping across the room to jab a gloved finger into the chest of the redhead, “Supreme Leader suspected you couldn’t do it. You truly  _are_ weak-willed –”

“How  _dare_ you speak to me in such a manner –”

“I can speak to you  _however_ I please –”

Irritation finally boils, spilling over as you snap, voice hiking an octave to silence the two bickering boys before you.

“ _Gentlemen!”_ you snap. The room rockets back into silence, and this time you wield it like a knife, stalking through the room like a huntress. When you speak again, Armitage swallows thickly.

“I do not like being toyed with and I  _certainly_ don’t like my time  _wasted_. Clearly this meeting has been called to inform me of something,  _yet! ._..Not  _one_ man in this room has the gall to simply  _speak_ it.”

You turn, eyeing your father.

“I’d say I’m  _shocked_ ,” you scoff, “But, really? I’m not – in the slightest.”

You move slowly, train following you as you eye the calendar on the hub. Across the holoform, you eye Hux. He shrinks under your gaze. Kylo gives you no read – he’s busy heaving angry huffs in Armitage’s direction, hair wild. The officers in the room, as well, continue to dodge your eyes.

So, you fill the silence.

“There’s been rumors of a coronation,” you speak plainly, “Now,  _who_ has the  _spine_ to explain that to me,  _hm?_  A coronation on my home world – when their Queen is standing  _right here_.”

You clasp your hands together, gesturing to yourself. And still, no explanation.

Armitage blanches, gathering enough courage to step close to the center of the room. You do deserve an explanation – but you silence him in one raised finger. Your gaze is gentle, then, and he claps his mouth shut. Kylo watches, moving to do the same, but your stone cold glare shuts him up fast. The sith apprentice wonders, then, if looks like that came along with regalalities. You look like his mother. The bite of intimidation settles on his tongue.

“Father?” you callout, voice heavy with cynicism. You don’t even turn to pin the man with a look, “Perhaps, you could give me an explanation – you are, in fact, acting senator for Hosnian. Surely you’re aware of the rumors, and surely you can disprove them, yes?”

Armitage has never seen a man break into a sweat so quickly.

From the upper-deck, the short figure of your father begins to descend the stairs. He’s swathed in First Order uniform, gloved hands gesturing wildly – and your brow is set in a cutting sort of anger that terrifies Armitage as much as it attracts him. His heart burns from dread and… something else, something more volatile and warm. Perhaps it’s the way you’ve got the room in a vice grip.

“My dear –”

You turn so fast your father does nothing but backtrack, boots scuffing against the floor as he retreats.

“I asked you a question. Answer it.”

Pleading eyes bounce between Kylo and Hux; but, like a cat with a pest in her mouth, you don’t let go.

“Supreme Leader Snoke has recommended th-that the position of Hosnian monarch be transitioned –”

“Oh! Snoke suggested it, did  _he?_ ”

Armitage has never heard you speak this way – unimpressed and sarcastic, swinging a proverbial sword and cutting the man down before you.

“And, father, did this suggestion come  _before_ or  _after_ you pawned your own daughter off for political gain?” you laugh, hands waving wildly, “Really, I’d  _love_ to know.”

“Dear,  _please_ ,” your father moves slowly, hands open in surrender, “You will be  _busy_ as acting dignitary to the First Order… a new  _marriage!_  You have no time for –”

Your hand cuts across your father’s cheek so hard the entire room winces. In a flash, you’ve got his jaw in a vice grip, eyes wild. The room flies into a panic, officers moving to pry you from clawing your own father’s throat out.

_“Your highness!”_

You howl like a hungry Acklay hellbent on mutilating it’s prey. It’s Armitage and Mitaka and Paze who rush to pull you from the conflict as Peavey and Stynnix pry your manicured hands from your father’s face. The scene, from the outside, is rather comical – save for the absolute terror plastered on the faces of the other officers in the room.

Your temper had been mentioned in passing. Kylo is now realizing this is why Hux hadn’t spoken about your usurpation in close quarters.

 _“How dare you!”_ you holler, finger jabbing the air. Your hair is slipping from it’s plait, eyes wild – you yank at your gown, moving to rocket yourself back in the direction of your father. Armitage catches your waist, hauling you backwards as Mitaka and Paze holler panicked whoa!s in the background. “They will  _riot_ – our people would rather  _burn_ than see you as King!”

 _“Hux!”_  Peavey croaks loudly, “Control your  _damn_ wife!”

In a blink, your anger is redirected – Peavey is the subject of the verbal onslaught, smeared in the heavy language of Hosnian; your hands push Hux away, only to have him catch you once more as you move to land a blow on the elderly ex-Empire officer.

“He is  _not_ my husband!” you screech, “I am not some _pawn!_  I am the Queen of Hosnian, royal senator of the New Republic – I am not some… some  _plaything!”_

You finally wrestle free of Hux’s grip, hair wild and out of breath. Armitage ignores the pain of your words, the pain of your nails – you leave claw marks along his wrists and shoulders. Finally, you settle. The room takes a breath, bodies tense from the expected impact of another outburst.

“If,” you say finally, weight settling back into a poised position as your eyes turn to Hux, “If you make  _him_ king…”

Your pointed finger lands on your father.

“The Hosnian system will fall out of your control,” you huff, “My people will not follow the man who  _murdered_ my  _mother_ in cold blood.”

You blink between Kylo and Hux. Armitage’s face is twisted into an unsettled sense of shock at the mere thought of the new information regarding your mother’s passing.

“Your plan? It will  _fail_ ,” you grit out, “And I will  _not be responsible_ for seeing my people die at the hands of the First Order because they will not kneel to some murderous war-monger.”

“Please, she’s being  _dramatic_ –”

Your father’s words are cut by Kylo Ren’s bark.

“Enough. The Supreme Leader has given the order.”

You snarl, stepping towards Ren with intent of battling it. However, the moment your foot plants a winding, horrible pain locks you in place – you gasp, like you’ve been plunged into cold water, eyes flooding with panic as the grip locks hard around your throat; your fingers move to claw at the invisible hand.

Hux’s voice cuts the room in half. It’s commanding; it startles you and Kylo.

“Let go of her.  _Now.”_

You drop to the ground, knees swimming in the pool your dress makes around you.

“Tomorrow, we fly to Hosnian. Come the week’s end,” Armitage says, “You will pass the crown to your father.”

Your heart hammers, eyes glued to the floor.

Hux watches you, and after a beat, he speaks.

“Everyone is dismissed. Get out of my sight.”

The room empties slowly, and once only you and Armitage remain – 

You cry.


	7. Mourning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux threatens Kylo, Seeva talks with Poe. You and Hux settle on your roles come the coronation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3.5k for you all! HAPPY TURKEY DAY!

Kylo Ren is infamous on the Supremacy and within the entirety of the First Order for his volatile temper and destructive tantrums.

Since he was a boy, the Knight of Ren has always had a fire brewing in his gut – something Snoke felt through the force all those years ago and stoked with hate and fear. Uncle Luke would always need to remind him to breathe, to calm his mind, to speak; but, the frustration of failure and fear of becoming a nameless face within a famous family drove him deeper into anger.

He knew the emotion well.

Ben, also, found himself wading in the tremors of the Force constantly. He’d always been empathetic – always been able to swallow someone’s grief as if it was his own. Ben’s sensitivity had reached its tipping point when he was seventeen – when Snoke’s voice had first clawed its way into his head. Ben’s mind was like an open door, and inside flooded the thoughts and feelings of the Dark Side.

Right now, the only thing Ben Solo can feel the seismic anger tearing you in  _half_ on the other end of the Dreadnought.

Kylo wonders what Snoke thinks, sitting high up on his throne. Perhaps it’s entertaining to him to see you fall apart under the pressure of protecting your people.

It’s not entertaining to Kylo – it’s  _annoying_.

For the last four hours, all Kylo has heard has been the war cries of a woman hellbent on tearing apart her suite with waves of anger so hard they’ve rolled him in nausea.

On the fifth hour, the Sith apprentice finally drags himself from bed in the wee hours of the morning to march towards Armitage Hux’s quarters and unceremoniously drive his fist through the door three times in greeting.

Hux pulls open the door a nanoclick later looking ragged for wear. The redhead had a normally immaculate appearance; clean and cut, not a pin out of place on his decorated uniform. Right now, though? Armitage is on his fifth glass of bourbon, cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. His shirt is half buttoned. Patterned socks are out of place against the black mirrored floor.

His brows are set in annoyance.

“What do  _you_ want?”

“I need you,” Kylo seethes, “To go  _shut her up._ ”

Hux blinks. Then tilts his head. “Oh, is her  _grief_ keeping you up?”

Kylo is about to snarl out a threat when Hux takes a step forward, legs unsteady. “It’s keeping  _me_ up as well, you insufferable brat – she is having her life ripped from her hands by us, by her father. Let her  _fucking_ mourn, will you?”

Hux spits the words out and Kylo settles back on his heels. He’s drunk. This is new. Milli watches from Hux’s desk. Her eyes are cold towards the dark haired Sith.

“If we don’t let her mourn now, she’ll  _retaliate_. That’s the  _last_ thing we need. This marriage –  _my marriage_  – was to save face for the First Order. She’s one of the most respected dignitaries among the Senate. So, you go back to your room and you let  _my fucking wife cry_ , yes?”

A pale finger jabs into Kylo’s chest. His lip twitches.

“Come morning,” Hux says, turning his back, “Assemble the officers needed for the coronation on Hosnian. We will discuss protocol and the plan for the ceremony. 0900 hours.”

Kylo simply exhales, gritting out a tired sound of agreeance.

“Oh, and Kylo?”

Hux turns. For the first time since Kylo has known the redheaded Commander, there’s a real threat in his voice.

“Touch her again,” he seethes, “And I’ll throw you out the airlock  _myself_.”

* * *

On the other end of the Supremacy, you’ve worked yourself into a mess – surrounded by the broken bits of your dignity and composure. Swallowed by your nightgown, you claw at your hair. The strands have gone wild, and on the cold floor of your bedroom, you feel like you have gone wild as well.

You have nothing left.

Your handmaidens have made themselves scarce in fear of becoming a part of the cutting demolition of your room and self – Seeva, from down the hall, can hear your screams, still.

You’re heartbroken.

The broken sobs leave her worried. So, locking the door to the refresher behind her, the young girl is quick to pull the datapad from her pocket – fingers swifting pull up the number of Poe’s communicator.

Seeva has a moment of hesitation; the line, though encoded, is still still open to a hijacking by the vast communications array in the Supremacy. Her finger hovers over the call button before she decides that Poe is the best man to share the news of the impending usurping. Leia needs to know.

She makes the call.

He picks up on the third ring.

Seeing him is like feeling the sun on your face after days of rain, and Seeva tries to hide how lovesick his smile makes her. He’d been sleeping – his bed head gives it away. In the dark of his room, Seeva hears BB-8 give a confused  _woooooo_  at the sudden awakening of his counterpart.

“Seeva?”

“Hi Poe.”

There’s a beat of silence where he smiles soft and sweet, and she bites back the mimicked look.

“Everything okay?”

“No,” she breathes after watching him sit up. His brown eyes are critical, scanning her face, “The rumors are true.”

“Of the coronation?” Poe curses, shifting again as he begins to stand up. The lights flick on in his quarters and Seeva gets a better look at him then. He’s already tugging on his flight suit as Seeva nods, “ _Frag_. That’s not good.”

“No,” Seeva rubs her face, “It’s not.”

“How’s she taking it?” Poe asks gently, heart aching for Seeva’s dignitary.

Poe Dameron had settled a long time ago that he would die for you –  Poe had always heard stories about you during his time in the New Republic’s Navy. As acting monarch of the entirety of Hosnian system, your real power lay in your home world, Hosnian, but your mark on Hosnian Prime branded you a celebrity politician.

Among the capital, you’d earned a reputation as a well-spoken and cut-throat senator. You’d become Queen at a young age – only thirteen after the passing of your mother, a well loved monarch – and took the responsibility seriously. In the years you’d been Queen, Hosnian’s trade and quality of life had bloomed. 

Poe remembers watching holovids of you battling back against Senator Mortan on the subject of Empirical policing – you’d cut the man down with a verbal onslaught, slandering the Empire in front of slack-jawed Centrists. You were only twenty years old. 

No one had seen something so audacious since  _Leia_.

The speech had thrust you into the spotlight and thrust you into the hands of the very woman people began to lay comparison to – Leia Organa was fast to create a lasting mentorship that had become news to Poe Dameron in the early days of his joining of the Resistance.

He met you once. You’d shook his hand, you’d bowed like  _he_  was royalty and you’d thanked him for his service to the Resistance.

He’d met Seeva that day – his heart had stopped dead in its tracks. Through a thin veil, she’d smiled at him and he’s been smitten since.

“She’s…  _struggling_.”

In the background, there’s a war cry and a string of Hosnian slurs. Poe can hear it.

“Is that –”

“ _Yes_.”

“Oh, slag, Seevs…”

“It’s bad.”

Poe hops into his boots, balancing the datapad. “Probably a good idea to let her cool down…”

“That’s the plan,” Seeva pushes a hand through her thick curls.

“So who’s the First Order putting in her place? I’m assuming they’re going to announce the wedding, claim she won’t be able to juggle the duties that come along with it?”

“Silus.”

Poe nearly chokes. “ _What?!”_

“I know –”

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” Poe stammers, “Her  _father?!_ There’s going to be  _riots_ –”

“It’s apparent the First Order hasn’t done their research into the House dynamics of Hosnian. Seems as though they all think that Silus will be a formidable replacement for her.”

“He… He  _murdered_ his wife.”

“ _Poe_ ,” Seeva hushes him, “You  _know_ that’s disputed.”

“He  _knew_ she was sick –”

“Murderer or not, he’s not in favor with the entire system. No one can stand him. Not to mention, the system Senatorial position will flip – Silus is a staunch Centrist, he’s an Old Empire veteran. Our entire system can hardly stand the  _idea_ of people like him.”

“When’s the resignation and coronation?” Poe is writing things down, eyes jumping from his pad to Seeva’s face.

“By the weeks end,” Seeva breathes, “Though, I have a feeling it won’t be nearly as cut and dry as these idiots seem to think.”

Poe sighs. Leia is going to have some words about this.

“I miss you,” Seeva says finally after a few moments of silence, “A lot.”

Poe’s gaze softens, notes ignored in favor of the face of the beautiful handmaiden blinking back at him. His lips quirk, brows raising. “ _How_ much?”

Seeva laughs, shaking her head. “To the outer rim and back.”

“That’s barely anything,” Poe chirps, “After all, I’m going to make that trip in a days time.”

Seeva blinks. “What?”

“The coronation – I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” a wink, “Couldn’t miss the chance to see  _my best girl_ , either.”

Seeva is torn between wanting to kill him and kiss him. “That’s dangerous, Poe.”

“I know,” he smiles, “But it’s worth it. For  _you_ , and for some reconnaissance on the new bad boys in town.”

* * *

Come metaphorical daybreak, you wake to a series of knocks on your door.

The room is a mess, and you’d finally fell asleep on top of the sheets last night, exhausted from heartache.

The sudden severity of this had finally set in – having your title stripped from you, handed to your father, being promised to a man you’d merely read reports on… Hosnian was your home, the people of the system were your home. And now, that home was being taken away.

The humiliation of it all, too, is biting. The Senate had been told you’d be on holiday, squaring away trade onions on the Outer Rim. You’d refused to break the news you’d been set into an arranged marriage; if this agreement between the First Order was to even be remotely successful, the idea of the marriage being arranged couldn’t even be considered. You knew that.

Your mother had promised you once you could marry a man you love. No treaties, no arrangements.

Your father had ignored that promise.

The room is silent and as the knocks call your attention again you realize that the girls are nowhere to be seen.

Dragging yourself upwards, you pad to the door.

When it slides open, a worried Junior Lieutenant Stynnix appears on the other side. You see her eyes dart to the darkening bruises around your throat. You have Kylo Ren to thank for those.

“Your highness,” she says softly, dodging your eyes, “I’m here to call on you for breakfast.”

You blink. Swallowing and rubbing your face, you take a moment to think. Slowly you croak: “I had no plans for breakfast this morning. Who is calling on me?”

“Commander Hux, your highness.”

You try to hide the snarl that curls your lip, but you’re unsuccessful at it.

“Tell him,  _kindly_ , to eat shit.”

Stynnix gapes as you turn, punching the datapad to the door and making it heave shut.

She knocks again as you retreat, shedding your nightgown and making quick work on a bath for yourself.

The loneliness of space is welcome – not feeling so smothered by the hands of Seeva and Jeei and Mela and Pelari is like being able to breath again. You’d worked yourself to the pinnacle of a breaking point the night before, hellbent on self-destruction in retaliation. The haze of anger has made it hard to think, and now, in the silence of the running water, waves of a different emotion cruise into your chest.

It takes a moment, but you realize it’s fear.

Not so much for yourself – but a new sense of threat for your home.

You sit in the bath for a long time, fingers dipping in and out of the water as you push soaps along your skin and try and wash away the damage of the night before. Slowly, the manic sense of anger and fear melt away. You reset yourself. You remember to breathe.

_You remember you have a role to play._

And then the door to your quarters slides open.

You jump, eyes wide at the sudden entrance of someone – in the glow of the bathroom steam, you spy the silhouette of long legs and a greatcoat.

“Your highness?”

It’s Armitage.

“I trust Junior Lieutenant Stynnix passed along my  _message_ , Commander,” you snap, water splashing you turn to watch the doorway, “Now, if you wouldn’t mind –  _leave_.”

He rounds the corner and quickly trips over himself, gloved hand snapping upwards to cover his eyes as he turns from the sight of you in the tub, half submerged in opalescent water.

“Oh! I’m – I am terribly sorry, your highness, I hadn’t  _realized_ –”

The split second sight alone is enough to knock the wind out of him. You look beautiful, like a water nymph he’d read about in storybooks from far away. Your hair spills over your back in watery tendrils; in the haze of the steam, Armitage can see the angered expression glues on your face.

He takes a step back and clears his throat. In his other hand, there’s a tray.

Armitage pushes a gloved hand through his hair out of sheer nerves, sending the red strands from their place.

“I, uh, brought you something to eat,” he says slowly, “And to gather you for a meeting on logistics pertaining to the coronation.”

The mention of food stirs you stomach and you pause in your response.

On the other side of the door, you see his shadow shift from foot to foot. His nervousness is charming, somehow, and you can see the evident worry in his posture.

You heave a sigh.

“Give me a moment, Commander.”

Hux exhales, shoulders falling in relief.

He’d spent the night worrying he’d sent himself back five steps with you – he’d dreamt about kissing you, about knotting his fingers in your hair and soothing the upset Kylo had spoken of last night. Waking up, he’d hoped last night was a nightmare.

It wasn’t.

You’d done the same thing.

Hux moves to the vannity on the other side of the room, eyes flicking through the mess. It’s clear you’d had a tantrum; Hux isn’t one to judge. His usual immaculate quarters are in disarray as well. He’d barely slept, tossing the sheets from the bed.

You drain the tub, wrapping yourself in a light robe and wringing the water from your hair as you dry yourself off. You see him in the mirror, looking around the room with a piqued curiosity. He seems unguarded; his face is soft with interest, gloved hands poking at a potted plant on the vannity.

Stepping from the bathroom, you move past him. Your fingers snatch the roll from the tray deftly.

Standing in front of him, you’re reminded of how tall the First Order commander is. He’s like a shadow, swathed in his greatcoat and ranks glittering along his collar and chest.

You suppose the sight of you both is something to see. There’s a beat of moment between you both – something soft, something remorseful. You can see the worry in his eyes and you can see the wear of the night on him. The circles under his eyes are dark. You want to kiss him, then, and frustration with yourself stabs at your heart.

And then, Armitage’s eyes land on your neck.

His gloved hands are cool on your jaw as you take a bite of the roll.

His turns your head, blinking at the bruises there.

“I’ll kill him,” he says finally, “I will.”

You swallow, taking his hand and pressing it back to his own chest. You create a space between you and immediately regret the action when his face breaks into something sad. Blue eyes duck to his boots, and in the middle of your room he toes the floor.

You move far away, pulling yourself from his orbit and trying to shake the intoxicating comfort of his cologne.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask finally, legs tucked underneath yourself, “That they were planning on usurping me?”

“I had no plan on simply…  _telling_ you,” he says, watching you, “It was meant to be  _discussed_ – I… I wanted you to remain on the throne. Though, it seems my cohorts think I am not  _worthy_ of being seated beside you.”

You narrow your brows.

Armitage shrugs. He seems boyish in this moment. Timid.

“I’m sorry. I  _am_. Had I known the decision would be what it is,” he sighs, “I would have told you. Had I known about your father…”

“You know this resignation will not go smoothly.”

“I am aware,” he moves, settling onto the very edge of the bed. He braces his elbows on his knees and leans forward, “Your father is not well-liked –”

You scoff. “That is a terrible understatement.”

Armitage sits up, then, eyes turning to blink over his shoulder at you.

“May I speak candidly, for a moment?” he nearly whispers, “Not as a First Order Commander, but as the man you may one day call your husband?”

It feels like a punch to the gut. You can only nod.

“ _Never_ challenge Kylo again,” he says, “Or your father. Or Peavey – or… anyone here.  _Please_.”

“Oh?”

He moves, shifting closer. “Not for the sake of docility. I cannot tell you how much I admire your ability to be so cunning, yet… The First Order has a goal and we will stop at nothing to achieve it. If that means eliminating any challenges, it will be done.”

There’s a heavy remorse in his voice.

“You are being used,” he says, “Against me, against your father, against the Hosnian system. There are bigger things at play here, your highness. Try and protect you as I might, I can only do so much.”

His eyes duck to the bruises along your neck and you can read the fear in his eyes better now. So suddenly, you’re realizing he’s not nearly as in control as you’d thought.

“I would rather not lose you.”

He holds your gaze then, searching for something anchoring in your gaze. Armitage’s heart keens at the softening of your features. The words settle nicely in your heart, soothing the rocky emotions that have claimed stake there these last few hours. He’s holding his breath, he realizes, scared that a single breath will blow the moment away.

“I know this, Armitage,” you lean, a hand settling on the curve of his knee with tender words, “I know the forces at play.”

You stand, padding towards the tray and grabbing a handful of berries. Armitage watches, close to mesmerized. “I know what I have to do.”

He stands, locked in your orbit. Long legs follow you to the vanity. Behind you, you can feel the sweep of his gloves along the bare expanse of your throat. He pushes your hair away, leaving a burning trail of touches where his gloves meet your skin. The touch is gentle and coaxing, yet it stirs something scalding alive in your mind.

“I know how this feels,” he says, “I’ve had my fair share.”

“You shouldn’t let him push you around.”

Armitage scoffs and you find yourself leaning back into his chest. It calls to mind the night on Canto Bight when you’d pressed yourself close in the midst of the casino. He’d kissed your dice for luck and you felt free.

“You’re more than capable,” you say, watching him in the mirror, “You certainly hold more poise than him.”

A haughty laugh.

“ _Poise_?”

“Mm,” you hum, cracking a smile, “Best polish it before the coronation. Eyes are going to be on you – the handsome suitor who  _wooed_ the Queen.”

“I hardly wooed you–”

You wave your hands, silencing him. “You want me to do my part?”

A quirk of a brow.

“My mother promised me I’d marry the man I love,” you say quietly, “If this arrangement is to go smoothly –  _if the resignation is to go smoothly_ , the people will need to believe we are in love. That this wasn’t some marriage stirred up by my father.”

It clicks. He nods. His hands fall to your arms, thumb brushing the skin there. You don’t protest at the touch like you had moments ago – it quells the fear of hatred he’d stirred up in his head the night before. His voice is soft. “Then I will have to try my best to continue to woo.”

You laugh, ducking your head.

“Armitage?”

He hums, seemingly lost in the close contact of your bodies.

“I’m doing this for my home, you know. Not the First Order.”

“I know.”

He does.

And it terrifies him.


	8. Sun burn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logistics are discussed. Family history is shared. Armitage & Kylo, upon landing on your home-world, realize they have a rocky past with your half-brother.

You enter the room and the temperature drops.

The gown you’re swathed in is as black as ink, creeping up your neck to hide the delicate purple and yellow bruises kissing your throat. The plaits in your hair adorn you like a crown, and Armitage Hux can’t help but feel proud watching you silence the room full of officers. Your handmaidens stand out, stark in white lace, and under milky veils are looks of anger, of betrayal. Like a coven of witches, you all descend upon the room and immediately command its attention, leaving the men spellbound.

In the hour since he’s seen you, Armitage realizes you’ve gone from delicate to daring.

In the polished obsidian of the council table, he catches the reflection of a cower from your father. He has his own bruises – long, ragged scratches from the nails of the usurped Queen of Hosnian. It seems his dignity is just as wounded.

Armitage smirks into his steaming cup of caf.

You settle into the seat across from the redheaded Commander, eyes dashing to him before they bounce to Kylo – the young Sith is perched on the edge of the table, looking as if he’s a breath away from pacing. You spy the drumming of gloved fingers. His mask conveys a distant emotion: something manufactured, not so boyish like his curl of lips usually are.

You sigh, irritated by the growing dramatic display from the young sith, folding your hands neatly in your lap. You feel like you’re back in the Senate, yet this time it’s a chamber full of rabid korrinas.

You share a look with Armitage; he seems to be waiting on someone to speak, yet not a single officer in the room does. You wonder if its intimidation. Even Kylo is – oddly – silent, despite his tantrum brewing.

After another beat of silence, you finally speak.

“If you’re all  _hellbent_ on wasting my time,” you sneer, “Perhaps I should start then, yes?”

“ _Please_ , my dear,” you father says, too quick to bow at the knee, “I believe you are the most prepared to debrief us on the ceremonies involved with resignation and coronation.”

“And  _engagement_.”

Hux raises his brows.

“As far as the Senate is aware, I have been on holiday in the Outer Rim tending to trade agreements,” you continue, “And though it may be a  _stretch_ , a trade has been made. My hand in marriage, intended to save face of the First Order, in turn for the protection of the Hosnian system.”

“… Has the engagement not been announced?” it’s another Officer – Paze, you think – he speaks, “We were under the impression…”

He gestures wildly between you and Hux. You narrow your eyes.

“No,” you exhale, “As the mere  _idea_ of an arranged marriage would destroy the intent of my union to Commander Hux – dowries and arranged marriages are seen as ancient to the New Republic. It’d be dismissed as the First Order muscling Hosnian around, though that is not far from the truth.”

Paze blinks.

You nearly scoff in his face. “I apologize, It’s all  _very_ political.”

The logic, though winding, makes sense the Armitage. He drums his pale fingers on the table.

“How do you suggest we announce the engagement, then?” Peavey asks, set back in his chair. His cap is crooked. The Empire veteran looks less than enthused to have been summoned for the meeting.

“When we arrive on Hosnian, I will have last-minute business to tend to with the Senate. A resignation is not taken lightly. While I transfer my duties to my father, I will make announcement when Senate is in session. My engagement will attempt to explain my resignation as Queen,” you explain curtly, crossing your legs, “There will, no doubt, be a bit of disturbance from the news. It’s to be expected.”

“ _Disturbance_?” Paze questions.

“Hosnian Royal Guardsmen are more than capable,” you shrug, “Though, for the sake of liability, I would like to request Captain Phasma accompany us upon landing. She is  _incredibly_ competent. Under her supervision, security will not be a problem.”

By the door, the chromium armored Captain stiffens at the mention of her name – the call to attention startles her as well as the recognition. Behind her helmet, eyes dart between Hux, now fiddling with a pen, and the light smile playing at your lips. Interesting.

“Who is at risk here?” Paze, the Naval Officer, chuckles. He leans back in his chair, sharing amused looks with other men at his end of the table, “You’re acting as if you’re embarking into a  _war-zone_ , your highness.”

“The protection is not for myself,” you laugh, jeering with the same amount of joviality, voice drenched in amusement, “It’s for the future  _king_.”

Behind you, Pelari spits in disgust.

And the transition of protective power now makes sense to Phasma.

The room, full of men, stifles into an uncomfortable silence.

“There will be attempts on his life,” you go on to say further, beginning to toy with the lace of your sleeve. Your tone is light, yet bearing enough carelessness to threaten, “Hosnian is a matriarchal society. The prospect of a King is laughable. Yet… Father, you seem  _ready_ to face the challenge!”

You smile and it flashes like a knife in the light.

“Surely there won’t be attempts on the man’s life for…” Paze gestures wildly, searching for the words, “ _Well_ , being a man?”

There’s a shared round of chuckles by all, yet Armitage bites his tongue. He connects his gaze with Kylo’s. For a moment, beneath that mask, there’s a shared understanding of the threats to Snoke’s plan. Behind him, Silus has broken into a clear sweat.

“Oh, there  _will_ be attempts simply because of such,” you laugh along with the wolves, “Clearly no one briefed this room on Hosnian politics and traditions, let alone my Father’s own history with the throne.”

“ _Enough_ ,” Kylo finally hisses out, “You’ll make the announcement upon arrival to the Senate. Captain Phasma and I will act as guards. Simple enough.”

“There will be an engagement party as well,” you continue over Kylo, eyes landing Armitage, “It’s traditionally two days after the announcement. Newly engaged couples to host a dinner – a gesture of good peace, where diplomats bring gifts to bless the marriage. In royal circumstances, the invitations range from senators to gem dealers from the Broken Coast. I will arrange to have Jarek, my chief aid on Hosnian, handle the invites once we land.”

Kylo turns then, eyeing you. He can hardly believe the words coming out of your mouth – but then he remembers the traditions that followed his mother around. Age old traditions, the appropriateness of braids on given occasions, significance of gown colors… All of it. He blanches beneath his mask. His father had  _hated_ the formalities. Ben followed in Han’s footsteps.

“Limit the guests,” he snaps, “We aren’t there to party.”

You roll your eyes. “Mind your impact. There will be New Republic Pacifists watching every Officer, every soldier’s move when we land. There are thousands vying for the First Order’s downfall. Something so slight as limiting a guest list speaks volumes. Best to keep with tradition, act with excitement. A royal wedding is table talk.”

“Perhaps,” Armitage reasons, swallowing the nervousness budding at the mention of the wedding, “We use this Engagement Party as an opportunity to bolster our reputation, discuss politics with those close to the New Republic. Having a political hand to raise in the senate would be more than beneficial to the First Order.”

Inside, the fear of this militaristic hell gaining traction is enough to still you into silence. You try to tell yourself it’s impossible, that in the coming weeks your resignation will be so battled against it won’t happen. You try to tell yourself the First Order will fail, no matter how many Star Destroyers or Stormtroopers at its disposal. It’s fall will be the end of Armitage Hux, of Kylo Ren. Nothing but boys playing war.

Perhaps it’s for the best.

“The announcement,” you say after a moment, “is typically followed with a press-release.”

“HoloNet News will be licking their lips for a piece on you two,” Peavey laughs, readjusting in his chair.

“We will pose for images to accompany the release upon arrival, then.”

Armitage spares a glance your way, watching the way you drop your chin. You’re surrendering a part of yourself, a part of your independence. You are stepping closer to removing your crown and Hux spies the winding intricacies of anxiety pouring into your words.

The meeting is dismissed, and departure is set for 1100 hours; as the meeting room empties, Armitage hangs back – you dismiss the girls, sending them to pack what little belongings you’ll need for the return to Hosnian’s surface.

Kylo sweeps through the room, stepping past Hux with malicious roughness. He, however, on his way past you, stops.

He lingers for a moment, masked eyes turning to land on the bruises along your neck.

“I apologize,” he rasps, “For my outburst.”

You quirk a brow.

“I do not wish to be your enemy,” he musters, practicing some sort of written apology. You can tell it’s difficult for him to grind out the words, “And I apologize for laying my hands on you.”

You laugh, then, wondering if he thinks you’re like some wounded animal, expecting to cower in front of its abuser.

“Thank you, Commander Ren,” you say, “Your apology is much appreciated.”

“Tunga root helps with the bruising,” he offers as an afterthought.

You make sure to mention it to the girls.

Finally, he exits, leaving you and Armitage to sit in the silence.

You twiddle your fingers.

“Something on your mind?”

“You will be picked apart, you know,” you laugh, “Not just by my aids.”

Armitage lingers by his chair, caf still gripping in his fingers. You tone is gentle, not so commanding, and there’s a sincerity there that has him hooked.

“You speak as if I don’t know what that’s like,” Hux snarks, “In case you haven’t noticed –”

Your hand on his sleeve quiets him.

“The announcement of our engagement is going to anger many – not simply because of your involvement with the First Order.”

Suddenly, he’s stabbed with a pang of jealousy. Of course. He hadn’t considered the others no doubt vying for your hand. Armitage sips his caf and tries to swallow the insecurities that follow the thought of having to compete for you.

“Stop that.”

He quirks a brow, mid-sip.

“You’re worrying – I can see it,” you say softly, a bit of a smile tugging at your lips, “Stop that.”

Armitage scoffs, swallowing, and dropping his mug to the conference table. He tries desperately to play it off. “I am not worrying – simply weighing the odds of having to duel for your hand against some Hosnian gem-smuggler.”

You laugh at that, fingers winding into the material of his great-coat sleeve. It’s grounding in a way. Right now, the threat of submitting to the First Order, to your father, isn’t so bad. You fiddling with the strip of silver fabric there, signifying his rank. He watches keenly.

“ _You’re_ worrying, now,” he says, “I can see it.”

“Is that so bad?” you ask softly, “I am days from leaving everything I’ve lived for behind. I am hours from the humiliation of a resignation, hours from driving a rift between myself and my people.”

“They truly don’t respect your father, then?”

You hold your breath, pulling your hands from his arm and pulling his heart with you – he follows you across the room, watching as you glide through the void of black. Against the backdrop of the systems outside the window, you fit right in. A sun among the stars.

There’s a sudden weight to the room; Armitage’s boots are the only sound in the room as he crosses to meet you. His hand falls along the small of your back.

You don’t move, only continue to fuss with the lace of your sleeve. You lack the careless bite you’d held earlier in the meeting. Now, you seem young. Overwhelmed. Nervous. His question, clearly, had struck along a vein of emotion.

And it had.

“My mother became sick when I was thirteen,” you say after a long breath of moments, “Very sick. Bed-ridden, and when she was awake, she never really was. She’d lay there – and she’d just… stare. Wide-eyes, glued to the canopy of her bed. She’d scream at night, too, in  _pain_ and  _terror_ and… I would sit by her side, all through the night.”

You blink back at him.

“I was a  _child_ , and yet I was being groomed to be a Queen. Day in and day out, I’d be drilled on policy and tradition and treaties and manners. At night, I’d sit by her side and pray my mother would get better. I was terrified – but, I knew that this was my duty. We  _all_ have roles to play.”

The emotion swimming in his eyes is hard to read.

“My father attempted to have her sign away the right to the throne one day. Aides called me to her room – he was screaming at her, telling her that if she didn’t, everything would collapse. Our family would fall apart.  _Hosnian would slip away, into the stars, a lost cause with a child as Queen_ ,” you laugh, “And I had him escorted out. And I promised by mother I’d never let him try again.”

There’s another few beats of silence, and you turn to face Armitage. He’s close now, and you can see, for the first time, the light smear of freckles dotting across his skin. They’re light, like the fading remnants of a mother’s love, like kisses from angels. He looks softer, weighed down with your grief. It’s shared.

You wonder if now, not so buzzed from champagne and the glow of the New Year, what it would be like to kiss him. He thinks about it, too, about winding his fingers in your hair and offering his heart as meal to soothe. You’d devour him whole, he thinks, lick your fingers clean and move on.

“He  _poisoned_ her, you know,” you say, eyes jumping from his freckles to his lips, “Toxic little tinctures in her morning tea. He said it was  _sweetner_. And when she died, it was hidden from the people. But, the rumors made their way out of the palace eventually.”

“I am sorry,” Hux breathes, “I am.”

“You should have known,” you smooth his collar down. His Adam’s apple bobs. You finally pull yourself from him, seasick from the tension that rocks your insides, “ _Someone_ should have told you. Though, perhaps stirring conflict is all a part of Snoke’s plan, hm?”

He wishes he had kissed you, then.

“No doubt.”

The reaction is reserved, tied and quelled.

You notice.

* * *

Hosnian, compared to its sister planet Hosnian Prime, is idyllic.

Subtropical and  _green_ , the planet calls to mind images of Naboo – modern and sleek, yet still clinging to the ancient relics of the past. The capital, Baela, is a bustling seaside city with the palace lying in the heart of it. Perched high on the cliffs overlooking the east, the palace is a picturesque example of the Hosnian upper-class; gilded finish, and marble columns.

Built on the back of the intergalactic gem trade, Hosnian has reaped the benefits of being on a shuttle transport away from the New Republic’s Galactic Senate. Senators, from far and wide, often summer on Hosnian – and because of this, the politicization of dinner parties has reached an all time high.

You land in the afternoon, swathed in First Order Stormtroopers and your handmaidens.

The moment the ramp drops and touches the tiled floor of the palace’s gardens, you can feel the sun kick off the terracotta. It’s a familiar feeling that brews comfort in your belly – and as you move out into the warmth, you spy the familiar faces of your council. They’re waiting eagerly, eyes drawn upon the menacing transport ship in awe.

You must look so out of place in that dark ship, decorated in pale blue lace and flowers with your hair wound around the sturdy crown on your head. The tunga root had helped. Nothing lays around your neck but an ornate teardrop pendant.

To your side, Armitage rocks on his heels and you share a smile his way.

You’re excited to be home.

You have to fight not to run across the battlement, to not throw yourself into the waiting arms of Jarek and Mamae and CN909.

Jarek, wise with wit and charm, is poised in his usual royal attire. The blues of his vest are stark against the tufts of white hair puffing from his head. The datapad in his arms is already being sifted through and the delicate, gold wire glasses perched on his long nose remind you of the days he would read you your list of duties every morning.

 _Pay attention, little one_ , he’d say,  _This will be your life one day._

Mamae is by his side, prodding his attention to you – her smile is as bright and warm as it ever was. Worry has left her with a creased brow, and the Twi’lek woman looks as if she’s done nothing but worry. She’d nanny-ed you since you’d been born, shaped you into the woman you are. Seeing her is like seeing your mother again.

And CNC909. The age old protocol droid is chattering on its feet, bobbing along in excitement. Never, in all your years, did you think you’d be excited to see that glitching mess of wires. And sure enough, the sight of the silver droid has you laughing.

“You big box of bolts,” you call, stretching your legs and pushing past the security detail blocking you from your home, “You came all the way out here for me?”

Armitage chuckles at that, and Ben can feel an ache in his chest – under the mask, a smile blooms at the thought of Threepio. It’s smothered quickly by the darker parts of him.

“W-W-Why!  _Of course,_  your highness!”

The second your feet hit the warm stone of the palace walls, you’re swept into the arms of Mamae, who coos and runs her hands over the bare expanses of your arms. You’d changed into a lighter gown, prepared for the warm weather of home.

The Twi’lek, with skin the color of a morning sky, kisses your cheeks and laughs.

“ _Look_ at you!” she chirps, “Stars! It feels like it’s been forever. Have you been eating? You like like nothing but a slip. Goodness, you look like you haven’t seen the sun in ages.”

You bloom under the attention, shaking your head and nodding and promising her you’ve been well. She lingers, holding your hand so tightly as Jarek cracks a wry smile and bows at the waist.

“Your highness.”

You mimic his bow, smirking brightly.

“Jarek.”

“We have guests.”

“That we do.”

“M-My! M-Many guests.”

You turn, eyeing Armitage by the transport. Phasma and her squadron have begun to unpack, and your handmaidens have dismissed themselves – now under the guidance of your council, and only them, you feel a bit… small. Young. Naive.

Armitage is lingering by the ship, looking very out of place and hot as the sun beats down on his face and brings a rosy glow to the high cheekbones there. He pretends to busy himself with monitoring the moving of your items, tries to look regal and cutting, but he just looks like a fish out of water.

“So, that’s  _the one_ , then?”

“It is,” you say, watching him speak curtly with Phasma, “He isn’t so terrible.”

“Handsome, at least,” Jarek huffs, “Let’s hope he isn’t as fragile as he looks.”

“He’s awfully young,” Mamae chortles, “Nothing but a boy.”

“He is wise,” you counter, the three of you watching him closely, “He’s smarter than he plays himself to be, I think.”

And then, your father steps off the transport.

The Hosnian Royal guards lining the deck stiffen, and under opalescent armor, you can see the tension in the muscles there. A threat to the kingdom, the man usurping their Queen.

“God, he looks  _awful_ ,” Jarek sneers, “Nothing’s changed.”

And, then, from the doors to the back entrance of the palace, you hear the jovial sneer of  _him_.

“Father!”

Swathed in black with a charming swagger and an even more charming smirk, your half-brother emerges into the Hosnian afternoon sun.

Younger by three cycles and the product of an affair, Obran Elden has spent his life opposing you – and your mother – and clawing his way up the Centrist ladder. Friends with Empire veterans, much like Peavey, you suspect he’ll get along just fine with the likes of Kylo and Armitage.

Obran has your father’s cheekbones. He looks like he’s been cut from stone, really, and maybe if he wasn’t so insufferable he’d have settled down by now. But, instead, he lurks in the after-parties of Senate meetings and nurses a bad Spice habit like some low-life swindler.

He embraces your father with a sturdy hug, walking right past you.

Jarek rolls his eyes, face set in unamusement. “Good to see the black sheeps of the family have found each other once again.”

Mamae spits a curse in Hosnian.

“Commander Hux! Good to see you again, my friend!”

Hux freezes mid-step, eyes connecting with Kylo’s in a desperate plea for help – the redheaded commander recognizes that voice the moment it flies into the air, and suddenly the urge to throw him over the railing and into the sea below sparks. Kylo, mask abandoned thanks to the heat, shares the same look of shock.

The sith and the commander work out the same conclusion at the same time.

_It can’t be._

Swiveling on his heel, Armitage comes face to face with the weasel faced con-artist – and nearly punches him in the mouth. Instead, though, he holds his tongue.

“ _Obran_.”

“Lovely to see you again, really,” Obran pats Armitage’s cheek, leaving a stinging mark, “Just like the  _good ol’ days_.”

Armitage side-steps the interaction with a visible look of disgust and discomfort, approaching the members of your council and yourself with a look of confusion plastered across his face. Obran, behind him, is laughing, talking happily, and Hux looks like he’s about to scream.

“Had you told me  _Obran_ was your brother,” Hux hisses, “Maybe this union wouldn’t have been agreed upon.”

Seems your expectations had been wrong.

“You  _know_ Obran?” you whisper-yell, eyes widening.

Mamae and Jarek take the time to watch you both – Armitage leans in, teeth set in a grimace as he speaks quickly. The distance between you two is not that of strangers, but of two people comfortable with each other. Perhaps the lie of love will pass, Jarek thinks, if only you two would choose to bask in the honeymoon phase of new love. Jarek can see it on your face – you care about him and it’s tearing a hole in your heart. Your alliance to Leia is making this dreadfully hard.

Armitage’s hands are clasped tightly behind his back, and you reach out, touching his great coat lapel as he speaks.

“Your brother was hired to do contract work, handling weapon’s trade and transport,” Armitage mutters, “He ‘ _misplaced_ ’ 4 million credits worth of equipment along the Smuggler’s belt.”

You blink over his shoulder, eyeing your brother chatting animatedly at Kylo – who, after connecting his gaze with you, makes quick work at arriving alongside Hux.

He looks like he’s in pain.

Jarek sees the Organa in him instantly. Mamae does, too. But they say nothing. Just watching as the towering figure of the sith steps closer.

“Please tell me he’s leaving.”

He speaks like his father.

He has his mother’s eyes.

“Oh my god,” you exhale, hand moving to smother an exasperated laugh, “I cannot –  _you two_  were the ones who assigned him to that transport?”

They both grimace. Armitage pinches the bridge of his nose.

“O-Oh, how terrible,” CN909 whirs.

“Please, don’t remind me.”

“He’s my half-brother,” you sneer, waving your hands, “My father had him out of wedlock. For the sake of her reputation, my mother took him in. I try to forget he exists, honestly. Hard to do when he’s so  _kriffing_ loud.”

“Language, dear.”

“Sorry.”

Behind the three of you, Obran begins to poke around the transport.

“He is insufferable,” Jarek interjects, “I may say I am quite glad we all agree on that, at least.”

“Jarek,” you say, stepping away from the two First Order commanders and turning to the council, “Commander Armitage Hux and Kylo Ren of the First Order. Both of you, this is Jarek Abya, my lead aide.”

“A pleasure, gentlemen.”

He hides his interest in them both with calculated expertise.

“And this is Mamae,” you say, “She’s another member of my council; hospitality is her area of expertise. And – well, CN909. Our favorite malfunctioning droid. Quite the trio, I think.”

“Welcome to Hosnian,” Mamae says, bowing a bit as she takes your hands, “Now, I believe it’d be best we begin squaring things away before your trip to the Senate, your highness.”

You nod, blinking back at Hux.

He offers a slight twitch of his lips.

“Armitage,” you say, “Sun lotion.”

“What?”

You gesture to his nose, bridging the space between you both and prodding at the skin there. His cheeks are hot.

“You’re  _already_ burning,” you grin, “Can’t have you _burnt to a crisp_ for our engagement photos.”

Armitage’s eyes soften. “I’ll have to find myself shade, then.”

Bouncing onto your toes, you lean and press a quick kiss to Hux’s corner of his lips– for the sake of the eyes watching from the windows of the palace and the Guards lining the walls. It’s for show, fingers wound along his jaw. You press another to his cheek before his hands find yours and you slip from his grasp, following your council to the palace.

“Can’t have you passing out, either,” you say, patting the wool of his great-coat as you drift away, “You as well, Commander Ren.”

A quiet hmpf.

“I’m serious about the sun-burn!”

Armitage’s face is more than just hot from the sun, now.


End file.
